fc 


: 

THE  LEIS 

A  collection  of   wor 
though  not  triviaL  Wh 
they  are  not,  either  in  < 
the  library  shelves.     16 

V(. 

ABOUT,  E. 
THE  MAN  WITH  THE  BRO- 

i-lAR. 
THE  NOTARY'S  NOSE. 

ALCESTIS.    AJfwtoai 
Novel. 
ALEXANDER,  Mrs. 
THE  WOOING  O'T. 
WHICH  SHALL  IT  BEJ 

JURE  HOUR  SERIES. 

ka  whose  character  is  light  and  entertaining, 
lie  they  are  handy  for  the  pocket  or  the  sachel, 
sontents  or  appearance,  unworthy  of  a  place  ou        i 
•mo,  cloth.     $1.00  PER  VOLUME. 

)L  L'M£S  PUBLISHED. 

ERSKINE,  Mrs.  T.          PALQRAVE,  W.  Q. 

WYN>                                         HERMANN  AGHA. 
FOTHERGILL,  JES-    PARR,  LOUISA. 

SIE.                                                                         CARTHEW. 

THE  FIRST  VIOLIN.                    HEAPS  OF  MuNfi. 
THEBWELLFIELDS                   PLAYS      FOR     PRI- 
oS3?Tw52*                      VATE    ACTING. 
KITH  AND  Kiv.                         POYNTER.  E.  P. 

RALPH  WILTON'S  WEIRD. 

FRANCILLON,  R.  E. 

•  .  TLE  L/ 

LDY 

HER  DEAREST  FOE. 

UNDER  SLIEVE-BAN. 

ERSILIA. 

HERITAGE  OF  T.ANGDALE. 

MAID,  WIFE,  OR  WIDOWJ 
THE  FRERES. 

FREYTAO,  Q. 

INGO. 

THE  HILLb. 

RICHARDSON,  8. 

AUERBACH.  B. 

THE  VILLA  ON  THE  RHINE, 
3  Tols.  -with  Portrait. 

INGRABAN. 

QAUTIER.  T. 

CAPTAIN  FRACASSE.  iiius. 

CLARISSA  HARLOWE,   (Co*- 

itemed.) 
RICHTER,  J.  P.  P. 

BLACK    FOREST    VILLAGE 

GIFT.  THEO. 

FLOWER.FRUI 

T.AND  THORN 

STORIES. 

PRETTY  MISS  BELLEW. 

PIECES,    a  v 

DlS. 

THE  i.rrn.E  BAREFOOT. 

MAID  ELLICE. 

CAMPAJtER  Tl 

lAt,  etc- 

!'H  IN  THE  SNOW. 

A  MATTER-OF-FACT  GIRL. 

TITAN.    2  vols. 

EDELWEISS. 

GOETHE,  J.  W  Von. 

HESPERUS,   a 

vols. 

GERMAN  TALES. 

ELECTIVE  AFFINITIES. 

ROBERTS 

Miss. 

K  HEIGHTS.   *  vols. 

GRIFFITHS,  Arthur 

THE  CONVICTS. 

Ox  THF  HUGE 

LX)RLEY  AND  REINHARD 

GROHMAN,  W.  A.  B. 

SCHMID,  H. 

POET  AND  MERCHANT 
LJVNDOLIN. 

GADDINGS  WITH  A  PRIMI- 
TIVE PEOPLE. 

THE  HABERMEISTEK 
SLIP  in  the  FENS.  A 

WALDFRIED. 

HARDY.  THOMAS. 

SMITH.  H 

and  J. 

.TTA. 

UNDER   THE   GREENWOOD 

REJECTED  AD 

'• 

SPARHAVt 

rK.  F.  0. 

BEERBOHM.  J 
i  RINGS  IN  PATAGONIA 
BEERS,  HENRY  A. 

A  PAIR  OF  BLUE  EYES. 
DESPERATE  REMEDIES 
FAR  FROM  THE  MADDING 
CROWD.    Hlus. 

A  LAZY  MAN'S  WORK. 
SPIELHAGEN.  F. 

WHAT  THE  SWALLOW  SA-NC 

.     A  CENTURY  OF  AMERICAN 

HAND  OF  ETHELBER.TA. 

SPOFFORD,  H.  P. 

LITERATURE. 

RETURN  OF  THE  XATTVB. 

THE  A 

GODS. 

BJORNSON.  B. 

THE  TRUMPET-MAJOR. 

AZARIAN. 

THE  FISHER-MAIDEN. 
BUTT,  B.  M. 

A  LAODICEAN.  With  lUuttr. 
HEINE,  HEINRIOH. 

THACKERAY.  W.  M. 

,   EARLY  AND  LATE  PAPEKS. 

:OLLV. 
EUGENIE. 

SCINTILLATIONS. 

HUNT.  Mrs.  A.  W. 

TURGENIEFF,  I. 

DEUCIA. 

THE  LEADEN  CASKET. 

FATHERS  AXD 

SON3. 

CADELL,  Mrs.  H.  M. 

JENKIN.  Mrs.  O. 

1     LIZA. 

IDA  CRAVEN. 

WHO  BREAKS—  PAYS. 

ON  THE  EVE. 

OALVERLEY,  O.  B. 

SKIRMISHING. 

i     DIMITRI  ROUI 

JINh 

FLY-LEAVES.    A  volume  at 

i  A  PSYCHE  OF  TO-DAY 

SPRING  FLOOI 

)s;  LEAK. 

veries. 

,    MADAME  DE  BEAUPRB 

VIRGIN  SOIL. 

"  CAVENDISH." 

Card  Essays,  Clay's  Decisions 
•nd  Card  Table  TaUe. 

|   JUPITER'S  DAUGHTERS. 
1   WITHIN  AN  ACE. 
JOHNSON,  Rosslter. 

TYTLER.  O.  O.  P. 

MISTRESS  JUDITH. 
|  JONATHAN. 

CHERBULIEZ,  V. 

JOSEPH  NOIREL'S  REVENGE. 

PLAY-DAY  I' 
LAFFAN.  MAY. 

VERS  DE 

80OIETE. 

COUNT  KOSTIA. 

1     THE  HON   MISS  FERRARD. 

VILLARI. 

LINDA 

PROSPER. 

CHRISTY  CAREW. 

IN  CH.OJGE  L 

NCHANGED 

CORKRAN,  ALICE. 

BESSIE  LANG. 

McGRATH,  T. 

PICTURES  FROM  IRELAND. 

WALFORD,  L.  B 

CRAVEN,  Mme   A. 

MAJENDIE.Lady  M. 

•   PAULINE. 

FLEURANGE. 

GIANNETTO. 

Cou- 

DEMOCRACY.  A  New 
American  Hovel. 

DlTA. 

MAXWELL.  CECIL. 

:  LESOME  DAUGHTERS. 

DICK  NETH; 

DICKENS,  CHAS, 

THF.  MUDFOG  PAPERS,  etc. 

A  STOKYOFTHREESISTERS. 

MOLESWORTH.Mrs 

AVINTHROP.   THEO. 

*  CECU.  DREEME.  TS.  Portrait. 

DREW,  Catharine. 

THE    LUTANISTE    OF    ST. 
IACOBI*S* 

HATHERCOt-'RT. 

OLIPHANT,  Mrs. 

\Vi-:;  :i  LA:  : 

CANOE  AND  SADDLE. 
'    JOHN  BRENT. 
EDWIN  BKOTHERTOFT. 

DROZ,  GUSTAVE. 

NORRI8.  W.  E 

LIFE  IN  THE  OPEN  AIR. 

BAI-OLAIN. 

1      MA1>  : 

VTYLDE, 

Katharine. 

AROUND  A  SPRING. 

HEAPS  OF  MONEY. 

1   A  DREAMER. 

•m  •    •     —      —  -  - 

v^ 
SYMONDS'S    RENAISSANCE    IN    ITALY. 

PART  I.    THE  AGE  OF  THE  DESPOTS.     8vo.     $3.50. 
PART  II.  THE  REVIVAL    OF    LEARNING.      8vo.      $3.50.     Both 
uniform  with  PART  III.  THE  FIXE  ARTS,  previously  published. 

••Each  volume  i*  complete  in  itself,  and  altogether  they  nobly  illustrate  oue  of  the 

:.g  periods  in  the  intellectual  history  of  the  human  race.  The  four 
••uth  centuries  in  Italy  were  luminous  and  glorious  in  art.  literature,  philosophy, 
a  i  seo  very  and,  indeed,  in  all  of  the  purely  intellectual  elevation  of  mankind.  Mr. 
Symouds  has  studied  this  period  with  enthusiasm,  and  certainly  no  other  English 
writer  compares  with  him  in  the  vividness  and  completeness  of  view  which  he  has 
opened  to  modem  readers." — Boston  Advertiser.  > 

GREECE     AND    ROME, 

TBEIR  LIFE  AND  AST. 

By  JACOB  vox  FALKE,  Director  of  the  Imperial  Museum.  Berlin. 
Translated  by  William  Hand  Browne.  With  over  Four-hundred 
Illustrations.  4to,  $15. 

"  As  a  text-book  for  artists,  '  Greece  and  Rome '  would  furnish  endless  material,  and 
a;  for  the  student  and  scholar,  the  text  alone,  apart  from  the  magnificence  of  the 
illustrations,  would  present  such  information  as  they  would  be  most  desirous  of 
acquiring.  In  the  production  of  such  a  book,  no  matter  where  ite  origin,  the  pub- 
lishers add  much  to  the  education  of  the  country." — N.  Y,  Times. 

"  A  sumptuous  work." — N.  Y,  Tribunt. 

'•  The  text  in  gorgeous  books  like  this  is  apt  to  be  the  weak  point,  but  that  is  not  the 
case  here.  Herr  Von  Falke  is  a  FCholar  and  an  archaeologist,  and  his  work  gives  an 
intelligent  and  clear  account  of  Greek  and  Roman  life  and  art.  *  *  *  Gives  by 
far  tte  clearest  view  of  antique  life  which,  is  given  by  any  one,  publication  accessible, 
in  tlm  English  language."— y.  Y.  World.. 

"  For  all  time  such  a  volume  is  a  treasure  in  the  house,  often  to  be  consulted  and 
always  with  instruction,  while  the  pictorial  illustrations  and  the  magnificence  of  the 
binding  make  it  the  chief  ornament  of  the  library  or  the  parlor." — y.  Y.  Observer. 

THE    SUMMER    SCHOOL    OF    PHILOSOPHY 

MOUNT     DESERT. 

T\veiity-four  Pen  and  Ink  Drawings,  by  JOHN  A.  MITCHELL.  4to.  $3.50. 

'•  There  are  no  dry-as-duat  essays,  no  fine-spun  disquisitions  in  '  The  Summer  School 
of  Philosophy  at  Mount  Desert.'  From  the  first  page  to  the  last  it  is  a  revel  of  fairy 
fun  and  mischievous  grace.  The  wisdom  taught  is  that  of  love,  and  the  young  men 
and  maidens  created  by  Sir.  J.  A.  Mitchell's  humorous  imagination  wander  through 
the  book  under  the  ingenious,  the  saucy,  the  benignant  tuition  of  the  quaintest  band  of 
Cupids  who  ever  skipped  from  an  artist's  pencil.  All  the  characteristics  of  Mount 
Desert — the  charms  of  the  Rummer  sea  as  viewed  by  twos,  the  vigila  on  the  piazza,  the 
bouncing  and  abundant  buck-board — are  suffused  with  that  delicate  wit  of  the  pencil 
in  which  Thackeray  was  the  great,  if  untrained,  master.  Mr.  Mitchell  is  the  young 
Bostonian  who  several  years  aso  left  architecture  for  the  painter's  easel,  and  whose 
pictures  have  had  success  in  Paris." — A".  1".  Tribune. 

Young  Folks'   History  of  the  War  for 
the   Union. 

By  JOHN  D.  CHAMPLIN,  JR.,  editor  of  the  "  YOUNG  FOLKS'  CYCLO- 
PAEDIAS.'' 8vo.  Copiously  illustrated.  $2.75. 

"It  brims  over  with  material  that  will  delight  and  instruct  not  only  the  younger 
people,  but  the  older  folks  as  well.  Mr.  Champlin's  long  experience  and  his  acquaint- 
ance with  the  tastes  of  the  young  have  enabled  him  to  supply  a  want  long  felt,  in  the 
happiest  and  most  successful  manner.  *  *  It  is  one  of  the  safest  books  that  has  been 
published  in  many  days  to  be  placed  in  the  hands  of  our  youth.'1— A".  1".  Commercial 
Advertiser. 

"  Relates  the  story  of  the  rebellion  in  a  new  and  fresh  way,  illustrated  with  personal 
sketches  and  portrait?  of  the  leaders  in  the  struggle  on  both  sides,  and  with  incident.-, 
adventures,  and  heroic  achievements  without  number." — Boston  Advertiser 


HENRY  HOLT  &  CO.,  Publishers,  New  York. 


Slips  for  Librarians  to  paste  on  Catalogue  Cards. 


N.  B. — Take  out  carefully,  leaving  about  quarter  of  an  inch 
at  the  back.  To  do  otherwise,  would,  in  some  cases,  release 
other  leaves. 

YESTERDAY.  (An  American  Novel.)  New 
York:  Henry  Holt  &  Co.,  1882.  i6mo,  pp. 
300.  (Leisure  Hour  Series,  No.  137.) 

FICTION.  YESTERDAY.  (An  American  Novel.) 
New  York:  Henry  Holt  &  Co.,  1882.  i6mo, 
pp.  300.  (Leisure  Hour  Series,  No.  137.) 


LEISURE  HOUR  SERIES.—  No.   137 


— 

YESTERDAY 


AN  AMERICAN  NOVEL 


NEW   YORK 

HENRY   HOLT  AND   COMPANY 

1882 


Copyright,   1882, 
BY 

HENRY    HOLT   &    CO. 


St.  Johnlattd 
Stereotype  Foundry, 
Suffolk   Co.,  N.    Y. 


YESTERDAY. 


CHAPTER   I. 

t>  where's  the  next  house  on  your  list?" 
"  There  you  are,  that  white  gate  to  the  left. " 

"That?  Here,  you,"  to  the  driver  of  the  long,  open 
wagon,  "stop  a  bit,  will  you,  and  let's  look  about  us." 

The  .wagon  therefore  drew  up  at  the  gate.  The  first 
speaker — a  showy  man  with  coarse,  dark  hair,  and  thick, 
brushy  mustache,  a  loud  voice  and  a  louder  laugh — gave 
a  long  stare  up  the  straight  drive,  between  the  old  wil- 
lows just  breaking  into  leaf  under  the  April  sun.  At  the 
end  was  a  large  old-fashioned  white  house  with  high 
steps.  Having  considered  it  a  moment,  he  again  ad- 
dressed the  man  behind  him — 

"Room  enough;  but  not  too  shady.     No  chills?" 

"Not  a  shiver.  I'm  too  careful  of  myself  for  that, 
Goring,  I  promise  you." 

"Mont,"  or  Mr.  Monteith  Tyne — to  give  him  his  full 
name — was  a  contrast  to  his  companion,  being,  if  also 

2212455 


2  YESTERDAY. 

tall  and  large,  rather  thin  and  plain;  ugly,  one  must 
have  said,  but  for  an  air  of  distinction  that  made  him 
almost  handsome  again.  He  had  a  worn  look  when  he 
was  not  speaking,  which  gave  him  the  appearance  of  being 
the  oldest  of  the  party.  Beside  him  sat  the  youngest, 
whose  amiable,  but  not  over-wise  and  still  boyish  face 
ended  in  a  chin  so  narrow,  that  he  had  taken  the  pre- 
caution of  filling  it  out  betimes,  with  a  pair  of  blonde 
whiskers.  This  individual  now  put  in  his  word. 

"I  want  a  few  trees;  haven't  I  my  hammock  to  swing?" 

' '  You  lazy  chap ! "  Goring  retorted,  laughing.  ' '  You've 
nothing  to  think  of  but  to  measure  your  length  when  you 
choose  summer  quarters,  Charley  Corbin." 

"  Well,  shall  we  drive  in  ?  "  asked  Tyne. 

"No;  don't  do  that,"  said  Goring.  "We  needn't  all 
look  at  every  house;  and  I  want  to  smoke.  I'll  stop  here, 
and  the  rest  of  you  fellows  can  interview  the  old  man,  or 
old  woman,  or  old  monkey,  or  old  donkey,  or  whatever 
it  may  be." 

"Have  it  your  own  way,"  said  Tyne,  "but  be  civil; 
the  old  lady's  my  aunt,  Mrs.  Bishop. " 

"Hallo!  Then  it's  a  family  job?  Still,  as  you  say, 
you  know  when  you're  well  off.  I'd  trust  you  to  make 
yourself  a  soft  nest  any  day. " 

"Oh,  Lord!"  exclaimed  a  fourth  person,  sitting  be- 
hind Corbin — a  very  handsome,  but  very  hard-looking, 


YESTERDA  Y.  3 

red-haired  man  this,  who  was  leaning  back  rather  grace- 
fully, and  twisting  a  soft  mustache.  "Do  you  suppose 
Mrs.  Bishop  would  ever  let  a  house  to  any  of  us  ?  She 
has  a  soul  above  greenbacks,  and  we  are  such  wild  young 
fellows." 

"You  go  and  talk  to  her,  and  she'll  soon  come  round," 
said  Goring.  ' '  You've  got  a  tongue,  you  !  " 

"I,  my  diplomatic  friend!  My  strong  point  in  this 
neighborhood  is  discreet  silence.  The  old  lady  has  her 
prejudices;  she  thinks  I  get  tight  and  smash  furniture;  I 
should  only  rub  her  fur  the  wrong  way.  Mont,  you 
dutiful  nephew,  it's  your  turn." 

"Very  well,  Hawk;  I'm  off." 

"But  won't  you  get  a  thundering  lecture ! " 

"What  for?" 

"Your  hat  It  looks  as  if  you'd  been  on  a  'bust' 
already. " 

"That's  Goring's  fault  for  making  us  try  the  short  cut 
by  Rossiter's  farm.  If  I  had  known  that  Rossiter  hadn't 
trimmed  his  cherry-trees  in  the  century,  I  would  have  ve- 
toed that  And,  Lord  love  you,  Goring,  don't  light  up 
while  I'm  here;  I  shall  catch  it  worse  if  I  go  scented." 

"Anything  for  a  quiet  life,"  growled  Goring,  and 
threw  his  match  into  the  road. 

"But  where'll  we  keep  our  boats?"  Corbin  suggested 
"This  house  is  on  the  wrong  side." 


4  YESTERDA  Y. 

"Mrs.  Bishop  owns  the  water  front  and  the  boathouse 
on  the  field  next  Start's  Hotel,"  answered  Tyne;  "and  if 
she  hasn't  leased  it  to  him,  as  she  talked  of  doing,  it  goes 
with  the  house." 

'  'Well,  "said  Goring,  "  go  and  see  anyway,  Mont,  will 
you  ?  The  other  places  we've  been  to  are  beastly  holes; 
and  your  relations  must  keep  a  house  fit  to  live  in.  We'll 
depend  on  you,  for  if  she's  particular,  such  a  rattling  gang 
had  better  not  show  all  at  once.  If  you're  nervous,  though, 
take  Sundon  along;  he'd  do  more  good  than  harm." 

Goring  leaned  over  as  he  spoke,  toward  the  last  of  the 
party,  who  sat  beside  Hawk, — a  place  many  a  man  would 
not  have  cared  to  choose,  on  account  of  the  comparisons 
sure  to  be  drawn  on  the  score  of  personal  appearance. 
Such  a  neighborhood  brought  out  the  special  defects  of 
the  person  present, — a  forehead  a  little  retreating  when 
seen  in  profile,  a  too  short  neck,  a  heavy  though  not 
awkward  figure.  His  hair  was  light  brown, — a  more 
fashionable  shade  than  Hawk's — but  it  was  very  straight, 
having  none  of  those  natural  waves  which  the  prettiest 
girls  of  the  season  envied.  On  the  other  hand,  his  eyes, 
gray,  like  his  companion's,  were  several  shades  darker,  with 
sensitive  pupils  narrowing  in  light,  or  widening  in  shadow, 
— a  detail  unexpected,  and  to  a  careless  observer's  fancy 
out  of  keeping,  in  an  organization  so  full  of  physical  vigor; 
but  one  which  in  itself  gives  an  air  of  mobility  and  ex- 


YESTERDA  Y.  5 

pressiveness  to  any  countenance.  The  effect  of  it  was 
borne  out  by  the  well-cut  curves  of  his  lips,  not  entirely 
hidden  by  his  light  mustache.  The  combined  sugges- 
tions of  his  face  made  up  a  rather  puzzling  whole.  A 
suspicious  critic  might  have  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  he  had  finer  instincts  than  had  been  done  justice 
to  by  the  average  course  of  his  life. 

He  had  been  listening  to  the  conversation  with  a  smile, 
but  taking  no  part  in  it  At  Goring's  address  he  put 
on  a  deprecating  air,  and  answered  in  a  tone  of  evidently 
affected  softness — 

' '  What !  I  to  go  first,  when  there's  a  lady  in  the  case  ! 
My  dear  fellow,  you  are  too  complimentary  by  half  and 
three-quarters.  After  you. " 

Goring  roared.  "What  first-rate  taffy,  Harry!  Try 
that  style  on  the  old  lady,  and  she'll  let  us  off  half  the 
rent,  if  Mont  doesn't  look  out  sharper  for  her  interest 
than  ours." 

' '  Oh,  I'm  nowhere  as  a  fascinator  when  you're  about " 
More  laughter.  "But  seriously  now,  shan't  I  make  mis- 
chief, Mont?  Haven't  I  heard  you  say  the  old  lady  had 
a  horror  of  the  profession  ? " 

"So  great,  that  she  don't  even  let  herself  know  who  be- 
longs to  it.  You're  safe  there,  I  believe. " 

"I  say,"  broke  in  Goring,  "we're  losing  time.  Harry, 
haven't  you  to  be  back  early  ? " 


6  YESTERDA  Y. 

"True  enough." 

"  So  have  I.  Look  here  then;  you  see  the  house  while 
Mont  takes  us  on  to  the  next  one.  Where  is  it,  Mont  ? " 

"  Firebrace's,  on  the  water-side — not  a  hundred  steps 
farther." 

"Man  or  woman?" 

"An  old 'longshore  fisherman-farmer,  half  eel  and  half 
pine-knot;  he's  put  himself  on  the  outside  of  enough 
whisky  and  Jersey  lightning,  for  the  last  half-century,  to 
kill  any  one  else;  but  it's  only  spoiled  his  temper  and 
preserved  him  in  alcohol,  like  a  snake  in  a  museum. 
Yes,  that's  not  a  bad  plan.  You  go  first,  Harry,  then 
I'll  come  back  for  you.  My  aunt  mustn't  think  me  rude; 
and  Firebrace  must  be  handled  by  some  one  that  under- 
stands him." 

"Oh,  leave  him  to  me  while  you  make  your  call,  if 
you  want,"  proposed  Hawk. 

"No,  I'd  better  begin  him;  you're  too  deep — you'd 
frighten  him  with  your  finessing;  and  we  want  him  at 
his  best,  for  if  Mrs.  Bishop  has  given  up  her  water  front, 
his  house  may  suit  us  more  than  hers.  So  that  settles  it. " 

"All  right" 

"Just  give  me  a  hint  how  to  start,  commander,  since 
you're  at  home  here,"  said  Sundon, — speaking  now  in 
a  brisk  everyday  tone;  but  with  a  voice  plainly  more 
musical  and  of  greater  compass  than  the  other  men's. 


YESTERDAY.  7 

"Go  to  the  front  steps,"  Tyne  answered,  "then  turn 
to  the  right;  you'll  see  the  outside  of  the  house  in  that 
way,  and  then  the  gravel  walk  takes  you  to  the  little 
house  which  was  the  gardener's,  and  that  my  aunt  moved 
into  when  she  decided  to  let  the  other.  You'll  find  some 
one  there  to  show  you  about  You  needn't  ask  many 
questions;  I  know  already  the  house  is  in  repair,  and 
the  rent's  not  too  high;  just  see  if  you  like  it.  Men- 
tion my  name,  of  course.  As  for  yourself,  put  on  your 
gravest  face,  look  quiet,  and  a  little  sentimental  if  you 
feel  inclined;  the  style  of  the  'Poor  Young  Man,'  in  fact. 
Anything  short  of  passing  yourself  off  for  a  clergyman,  in 
which  you  might  possibly  be  found  out" 

"Do  I  look  like  it?  Do  I  speak  like  it?  Good 
Lord,  how  badly  those  clerical  fellows  do  speak !  T'other 
day  I  went  to  hear  their  great  gun  at  St  Leo's — " 

"  Oh  !  oh  !  oh-h  ! "  from  the  rest  of  the  party. 

"Yes,  yes,  yes.  Just  in  the  way  of  business,  you  must 
know.  The  papers  were  all  praising  his  '  delivery, '  and 
his  '  elocution, '  and  his  '  power  over  the  emotions  of  his 
audience,'  till  I  thought  I  must  see  if  he  knew  anything 
I  didn't." 

"You're  always  studying  up,"  said  Goring.  "Should 
think  it  would  be  an  infernal  nuisance." 

"No  more  than  to  you  to  turn  over  your  investments. 
But  this  time  I  was  swindled.  Gabble,  gabble,  from  one 


8  YESTERDA  Y. 

end  of  that  everlasting  service  to  the  other.  The  sexton  put 
me  in  a  pew  with  an  old  maid  and  a  school-girl  from  the 
backwoods.  At  first  they  were  mightily  impressed;  but 
about  the  middle  of  it  the  little  thing  whispers,  '  Don't 
he  read  too  fast?'  and  the  dragon  answers,  'These  ser- 
vices are  so  long,  he  must,  to  get  through  in  time.'  I 
hadn't  quite  the  courage  to  ask,  '  You  mean  in  time  for 
dinner  ? '  Well,  any  more  orders  ?  "  dismounting  with  the 
last  words. 

"  No  .skylarking  with  the  waiter-girl,"  put  in  Goring. 

"After  you,  again  !  " 

"Your  hat  a  little  straighter,"  said  Tyne.  "All  right 
now.  Forward  march  !  " 

Sundon  lifted  his  hand  in  a  military  salute,  and  walked 
off  with  an  air  of  responsibility,  in  spite  of  a  lurking 
twinkle  in  his  eyes. 

He  did  not  carry  out  Tyne's  directions  to  the  letter, 
after  all;  for  when  he  reached  the  foot  of  the  steps,  he 
saw  the  door  at  the  top  beginning  to  open,  and  a  glimpse 
of  black  dress  and  white  cap.  .  "The  old  lady  must  be 
there,"  he  thought,  and  mounted  up  to  see;  but  when  he 
reached  the  top,  he  found  himself  unexpectedly  confronted 
by  a  woman  nobody  could  have  called  old.  Her  brown 
deep-set  eyes  looked  a  little  hollow  and  weary,  and  her 
cheeks  were  pale,  as  if  she  was  recovering  from  an  ill- 
ness or  a  shock;  but  her  lips  were  red  and  fresh,  and  the 


YESTERDA  Y.  9 

short  oval  of  her  face  was  completed  by  a  smooth,  broad 
forehead,  from  which  her  soft  brown  hair,  growing  rather 
low,  was  put  back,  in  the  fashion  of  the  day.  She  wore 
the  simplest  of  long  black  cashmere  dresses,  and  a  little 
white  muslin  cap.  "Not  the  old  lady,  and  certainly  not 
a  servant,"  Sundon  thought;  "a  widow,  or  a  girl?  I 
can't  tell.  Some  near  relation,  at  any  rate.  Mont  should 
have  told  me — "  with  a  glance  back  at  the  wagon,  which, 
however,  by  this  time  had  gone  on.  He  bowed,  and  in- 
quired for  Mrs.  Bishop. 

"She  is  not  at  home,"  was  the  answer.  ("Pretty  little 
soft  voice,"  he  commented  to  himself,  "but  wants  color 
as  much  as  her  cheeks.  Why  hasn't  Mont  tried  to  warm 
her ? ")  "I  will  take  any  message  for  her." 

"I  would  like  to  see  the  house,  if  I  may.  I  came  from 
New  York  this  morning  on  purpose  to  look  at  houses." 

' '  I  will  show  it  to  you.  Of  course,  in  Mrs.  Bishop'-s 
absence  I  cannot  do  more.  But  no  one  has  even  the  re- 
fusal of  it  yet,  as  far  as  I  know;  so  it  would  be  worth 
your  while." 

They  went  together  through  the  rooms,  large,  scantily 
furnished  in  a  style  long  out  of  date,  with  everything  re- 
moved that  gave  an  air  of  modern  daily  occupation,  but 
much  remaining  to  suggest  old  days  of  formal  prosperity. 
It  was  a  house  that  would  be  cool  and  airy  in  summer, 
and  the  large  garden  at  the  back  had  many  shady  nooks, 


10  YESTERDAY. 

besides  promise  of  vegetables  and  fruit  in  the  sunny 
spaces.  Unfortunately  the  young  lady  had  to  inform 
Sundon,  that  Mrs.  Bishop  had  let  the  field  on  the  shore 
and  all  its  belongings  to  Start.  "None  of  the  houses 
on  the  beach  are  to  let  either,"  she  added,  "except  Mr. 
Firebrace's,  which  is  rather  cramped,  if  you  have  a  large 
family." 

"There  are  five  of  us,  not  counting  servants." 

' '  Are  any  of  them  children  ?  Mrs.  Bishop  wished  me 
particularly  to  ask." 

"Why,  no,"  said  Sundon,  laughing,  "we  are  five 
full-grown  bachelors,  though  we  still  keep  up  our  boy- 
ish passion  for  dabbling  in  salt  water.  One  of  us  you 
must  know  already, — my  friend,  Monteith  Tyne."  Why 
had  he  not  named  him  before  ?  He  could  not  tell;  some 
vague  fancy  of  observing  the  ground  for  himself  had  led 
him  on. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "he  is  my  cousin.  He  could  not 
come  himself  to-day,  then  ? " 

This  remark,  made  with  decided  animation,  was  the  first 
she  had  volunteered  not  strictly  in  the  line  of  business. 

"He  has  gone  with  the  rest  to  have  a  look  at  Fire- 
brace's,  but  will  be  here  directly.  It's  plain  he  did  not 
hope  to  find  you,  or  I  should  not  have  been  allowed  to 
come  alone." 

"I  hope  he  will  not  be  long,  for  I  must  go  very  soon 


YESTERDA  Y.  1 1 

to  the  train  for  Mrs.  Bishop;  though  I  am  not  sure  she 
will  return  now." 

("She  wants  to  see  him,"  thought  Sundon.  "Query, 
how  much  ? ") 

"If  you  think  it  worth  while,  you  might  wait  and  see 
her  yourself;  still  I  am  not  quite  certain.  But  I  must 
excuse  myself,  to  get  ready;  you  have  seen  everything — 
Why,  this  has  been  left;  I  must  take  it  over. " 

They  were  again  at  the  house  door,  and  she  had  caught 
sight  of  a  basket  packed  full  of  books,  standing  in  the 
hall.  She  began  to  lift  it. 

' '  Don't, "  said  he,  "it  is  too  heavy  for  you.  Let  me 
carry  it" 

"Oh  no,  thank  you." 

"At  least  let  me  help  you  with  it" 

It  ended  in  their  taking  it  between  them  to  the  "other 
house,"  a  little  old  low  wooden  structure,  close  on  the  road 
but  for  a  low  ragged  hedge.  The  lady  looked  about  her 
a  minute,  as  they  set  the  basket  down  on  the  veranda, 
then  said,  ' '  Many  thanks ;  now  don't  let  me  detain 
you. " 

' '  You  are  not  off  yet  yourself  ? " 

"  I  am  waiting  for  my  horse  and  wagon." 

"If  I  might  wait  with  you  till  Mont  comes — and  here 
he  is." 

Tyne  was  just  entering  by  the  gate  in  the  hedge.     He 


1 2  YESTERDA  Y. 

walked  quickly  up,  with  a  start  and  an  air  of  surprise;  the 
lady  met  him  cordially. 

"Why,  Grace !"  he  said.  ("The  name  suits  her  ex- 
actly," thought  Sundon).  "I  was  sure  you  were  in 
Philadelphia ! " 

"No;  Cousin  Sarah  wrote  at  the  last  moment  that  the 
children  were  sick,  and  I  had  better  not  come. " 

"Of  course;  you  are  not  up  to  playing  the  nurse  yet 
Where's  aunt  ? " 

' '  She  stayed  last  night  in  town.  I  am  just  going  to 
the  train  for  her." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  she  left  you  all  alone 
here  ? " 

"Oh,  that's  nothing.  And  I  have  been  showing  the 
house  to  your  friend. " 

"Miss  Delahay — allow  me — Mr.  Sundon."  ("Not  a 
widow  then,"  Sundon  said  to  himself.)  "You  have 
heard  me  speak  of  him;  in  fact,  though  you  have  not 
met  him,  you  have  seen  him  before;  and  I  know  you 
have  not  my  aunt's  prejudices." 

"When,  Mont?  Oh,  I  know;  when  you  made  up 
that  theater-party  last  year  in  Christmas-week.  I  have 
a  great  deal  of  pleasure  to  thank  you  for,  Mr.  Sundon." 
Her  tone  and  smile  were  enthusiastic,  in  spite  of  the  for- 
mality of  her  words. 

"  Ah !  "  said  he,  "I  thought  one  evening  in  Christmas- 


YESTERDAY.  13 

week  that  I  had  a  particularly  sympathetic  audience;  that 
must  have  been  the  time. " 

"Shall  I  tell  you  what  we  said  afterwards,  into  the  bar- 
gain ?  "  asked  Tyne,  with  a  mischievous  look. 

"Oh,  that  is  all  nonsense,"  said  Grace;  "it  is  not  even 
new.  Mr.  Sundon  must  have  heard  too  many  such  fool- 
ish things  already." 

' '  Were  they  so  very  uncomplimentary,  as  a  set-off  to 
the  pleasure  ? "  Sundon  asked. 

"You  might  not  think  them  flattering,"  Grace  re- 
turned, a  little  embarrassed. 

"  Let  us  give  him  the  chance  to  judge  for  himself,"  said 
Tyne.  "My  cousin,  in  spite  of  her  enjoyment  of  acting 
as  an  artistic  matter,  declared  that  she  not  only  did  not 
care  for  the  personality  of  the  actors,  but  hardly  under- 
stood that  they  were  real  people  at  all.  If  I  had  told  her 
they  were  optical  illusions,  clever  reflections  in  magic  mir- 
rors, helped  out  by  ventriloquist  tricks,  she  would  have 
believed  me,  she  maintained.  Now,  Grace,  you  can  see 
for  yourself  trfcit  you  haven't  owed  your  entertainment 
merely  to  a  shadow." 

Grace  was  sitting  in  a  straw  chair  with  broad  arms,  and 
was  letting  one  hand  rest  on  one  of  them, — a  thin  hand 
now,  but  evidently  pretty  not  long  since.  Sundon  put 
out  his  own,  and  laid  it  lightly  on  hers  a  moment,  disre- 
garding Tyne's  warning  glance. 


14  YESTERDAY. 

"Is  that  real,  do  you  think,  Miss  Delahay?"  he  said. 

She  had  been  smiling;  she  still  smiled  as  she  looked 
down  at  his  handsome  well-shaped  hand,  large  and  strong,  „ 
but  whiter  and  showing  less  signs  of  work  than  most 
men's.  His  fancy,  however,  saw  something  in  her  eyes 
that  made  him  say,  "It  will  be  brown  enough  by  and 
by,  I  promise  you;  I  mean  to  go  in  for  rowing  and  sail- 
ing this  vacation. "  With  that  he  lifted  it  off,  wondering 
why  hers  should  tremble  so.  How  delicate  she  seemed  ! 
It  made  her  for  the  moment  less  pleasing  to  him. 

"I  assure  you,  I  think  you  a  man,"  she  said.  "You 
will  allow  for  my  never  having  met  an  actor  off  the  stage 
before  ? " 

"If  our  acquaintance  is  to  last,  as  I  hope  it  is,  I  prom- 
ise not  to  play  any  part  with  you  but  my  own,"  he  said. 

Grace  raised  her  head  a  little  higher,  with  a  look 
that  went  through  him  like  a  lightning -flash,  and 
was  gone  as  quickly.  Sundon  almost  thought  himself 
mistaken.  Could  a  young  girl,  brought  up  as  Tyne's 
cousin  probably  would  have  been,  give  such  glances  ? 
It  reminded  him  of  nothing  less  than  an  experience  of 
the  year  before  with  Tyne  himself.  They  had  a  mutual 
acquaintance  of  whom  the  world  said,  "His  rooms  are 
no  better  than  a  private  gambling-house; "  and  once  the 
two  happened  to  be  playing  cards  together  there,  and  for 
high  stakes.  Tyne  had  not  quite  broken  with  old  habits 


YESTERDA  Y.  I  5 

on  that  point  then.*  They  both  were  clever  at  the  game 
they  had  chosen,  but  Sundon  rather  the  best  Tyne  cared 
nothing  how  it  ended,  but  he  knew  Sundon  to  be  pushed 
for  money.  The  luck  shifted  from  one  to  the  other,  till 
at  length  it  took  a  sudden  turn  in  Sundon's  favor;  and 
then  it  was  he  had  felt  that  look  of  Tyne's,  so  quick  no 
one  else  saw  it,  so  sharp  it  was  not  to  be  misunderstood. 
' '  He  thinks  I'm  cheating ! "  Sundon  said  to  himself. 
' '  He  shall  see. "  He  played  on,  and  chance  and  skill 
combined  for  him  to  win.  When  it  was  over,  Tyne  only 
said  indifferently,  "I'm  going  now;  suppose  you  come 
along;"  and  talked  of  other  things  till  they  reached  his 
rooms,  when  he  asked  Sundon  in,  and  saying,  "We'd 
better  settle,  now  I  have  the  money,"  wrote  a  check  and 
handed  it  to  him.  Sundon  looked  at  it  and  tore  it  up. 

"What's  that  for ? "  asked  Tyne.  "That's  my  writing, 
and  represents  so  much  of  my  balance;  it's  neither  forged 
nor  overdrawn." 

"You  think  I've  cheated  you,"  said  Sundon. 

"Stuff!  If  I  did,  I'd  have  made  a  row  when  I  had  the 
other  fellows  to  bear  me  out" 

' '  You  weren't  sure  enough  for  that,  but  you  thought 
so  all  the  same.  I  won't  stand  it  How  could  you, 
after  all  we've  been  through  together  ?  To  be  sure,  you 
haven't  tried  me  just  this  way  before." 

"But  what  should  make  you  think  so ? " 


1 6  YESTERDAY. 

"I  saw  it  in  your  eyes." 

"What,  while  your  heart  was  in  your  play?" 

"Isn't  it  part  of  my  regular  business  to  see  two,  three, 
a  dozen  things  at  once  ?  It  came  and  went  in  your  eyes, 
out  it  isn't  out  of  your  mind  yet.  I  won't  take  your 
money  till  it  is. " 

"I  know  you  want  it;  Brown  said  so." 

"That's  nothing  to  you;  I  didn't  tell  you." 

"You  know  I'm  always  willing  to  lend,  and  when 
you've  fairly  won,  do  you  think  I  won't  pay  up  ?  There 
now, "  writing  a  second  check,  ' '  unless  you  want  to  quar- 
rel with  me,  take  it  now. " 

Sundon  took  it,  and  from  that  time  they  were  closer 
friends  than  ever. 

Whether  there  would  be  any  corresponding  conclusion 
with  Grace  Delahay,  it  was  too  soon  to  divine.  Just  now 
she  had  carelessly  answered,  "Oh,  no  doubt";  and  Tyne 
had  changed  the  subject  entirely,  saying, 

"Harry,  I'm  afraid  you'll  think  I've  sent  you  here,  in 
the  matter  of  the  houses,  on  a  fool's  errand.  Our  fellows 
have  fallen  in  love  with  Firebrace's  establishment,  most  of 
all  with  his  dock,  and  won't  hear  of  anything  else.  We 
shall  be  consulted  as  a  matter  of  form;  but  since  it's  really 
good  enoug1 ,  we  may  as  well  give  in." 

"We  shall  still  be  neighbors  this  summer,  Miss  Dela- 
hay, I  hope,"  said  Sundon,  "since  I  understand  you  re- 


YESTERDAY.  17 

main  here;  and  as  I  have  been  fortunate  enough  to  meet 
you,  I  may  hope  to  see  you  again  ? " 

"Probably.  At  all  events  I  must  take  leave  of  you 
now. " 

An  awkward,  overgrown  boy  had  brought  round  a  shab- 
by pony-phaeton,  drawn  by  a  bony  and  unpromising- 
looking  horse.  Grace  slipped  into  the  house  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  returned  with  a  little  black  shawl  wrapped 
about  her,  and  her  cap  exchanged  for  a  close-fitting  bonnet. 

"Still  the  same  old  rattle-trap,"  said  Tyne.  "I  won- 
der it  holds  together,  but  that  beast  will  never  break  it 
up.  Aunt  ought  to  give  you  something  better  to  drive, 
once  she  gets  a  tenant.  Remember  me  to  her;  ask  her  to 
make  up  her  mind  to  seeing  me  about  here  through  the 
summer.  But  are  your  plans  settled  yet  ?  " 

"No,"  Grace  answered,  "I  am  hardly  strong  enough, 
and  there  are  not  so  many  chances." 

"  I  must  see  what  I  can  do.  Are  you  off?  "  Sundon 
had  helped  her  into  the  phaeton.  "Good-bye;  I'll  be 
down  again  soon,  to-morrow  if  possible." 

"Look  here,  Mont,"  said  Sundon,  as  soon  as  Grace 
was  out  of  sight,  while  they  still  stood  at  the  gate;  "does 
our  not  taking  your  aunt's  house  make  any  difference  to 
that  young  lady?"  .u 

"Not  the  least.  I  wish  it  did;  but  she  depends  on 
nobotlv  but  herself/' 


r8  YESTERDAY. 

"You  never  told  me  anything  about  her,  do  you 
know  ? " 

"  I  don't  want  to  get  into  the  way  of  boring  you  with 
ray  relations." 

"No  danger.  As  far  as  I  hear  from  you,  you  have 
none.  So  then,  what  is  Miss  Delahay  to  you?  'Cousin' 
don't  explain  everything;  and  I  rather  like  family  histories 
when  they're  not  long-winded." 

"Well,  there  were  once  three  sisters;  the  stiff  one, 
my  aunt  Mrs.  Bishop;  the  beauty,  my  mother, — though 
I  don't  prove  it, — and  the  clever  one,  with  the  heart  of 
gold  into  the  bargain,  Grace's  mother,  Mr.  William  De- 
lahay's  wife." 

"William  Delahay  the  banker,  that  Goring  was  talk- 
ing about  the  other  evening?" 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"'That  old  fellow  that  broke  all  to  pieces  because 
he  was  so  devilish  soft-hearted/" 

"The  same.  A  case  of  bad  debts,  with  the  panic 
of  '57  to  help  it  on.  Goring  will  never  be  so  easy  a 
creditor, — no,  nor  half  so  good  a  fellow  either  as  my 
uncle  by  marriage,  who  was  a  much  kinder  friend  to 
me  than  the  scamp  of  the  family  deserved. " 

"He's  dead  now?" 

"Yes,  he  overworked  to  set  his  affairs  straight  again, 
and  died  suddenly  in  the  beginning  of  the  war;  the  ex- 


YESTERDAY.  19 

citement  of  those  days  was  the  finishing  touch.  My  aunt 
moved  to  Yonkers,  and  kept  a  little  school,  Grace  help- 
ing her  in  it." 

"I  remember  now,  I've  heard  you  speak  of  them, 
and  known  of  your  doing  things  for  them;  but  I  was 
stupid  enough  to  fancy  them  very  different  sort  of 
people. " 

"And  I  stupid  enough  not  to  let  you  see  what  they 
really  were.  For  my  aunt  it's  too  late;  she  died  of  ty- 
phoid fever  last  February.  Grace  nursed  her,  was  ill 
herself,  and  is  slowly  recovering — the  slower  the  better." 

"Why?" 

"Because,  as  soon  as  she  is  well  enough,  she  leaves 
Mrs.  Bishop,  and  goes  out  as  a  governess,  wherever  she 
can  find  a  place;  a  hard  thing  for  a  young  girl,  reserved 
and  sensitive,  a  little  proud,  fond  of  society,  and  fitted 
for  it.  If  she  shouldn't  be  well  treated,  I  couldn't 
stand  it." 

' '  Mightn't  she  marry  ?  There's  something  rather  tak- 
ing about  her. " 

"I  wish  she  might;  but  she's  poor,  in  mourning,  and 
under  Mrs.  Bishop's  wing,  where  she  sees  nobody.  And 
girls  haven't  so  many  chances  at  the  best  since  the  war, 
now  there  are  so  many  more  women  than  men.  If 
she'd  take  it,  I'd  give  her  half  my  money  to  start  with; 
but  she  never  would." 


20 


"Why  not  marry  her  yourself?" 

"For  several  good  reasons;  we  are  first  cousins,  and 
I  don't  believe  in  such  matches;  I've  seen  too  much  of 
them  abroad.  Then  I  know  she  wouldn't  have  me,  ahd 
so  I  am  not  in  love  with  her.  " 

"You  seem  to  like  each  other  very  well." 

'  '  Just  in  the  wrong  way  for  an  engagement.  She  has 
been  the  good  little  sister,  —  not  consciously,  though; 
she's  not  a  prig,  only  rather  grave  in  consequence  of 
a  life  of  care,  —  and  'I  the  naughty  big  brother,  for  so 
long,  that  we  can't  regard  each  other  in  a  different  light. 
That's  settled.  She's  very  affectionate,  and  if  there  were 
a  man  who  took  her  fancy,  he  would  have  more  love 
from  her  than  most  women  can  give;  but  since  I  am 
not  able  myself  to  love  her,  I  shall  never  win  it." 

"  By  the  way,  it  must  have  been  she  that  Hawk  was 
setting  down  for  a  starched  schoolmistress  the  other  day; 
how  comes  he  not  to  know  better?'' 

"I'll  tell  you.  He  has  met  her  twice  only,  at  the 
Mackenzies;  and  each  time  his  conversation  was  based 
on  his  pet  theory,  that  a  woman  likes  fast  talk,  and 
makes  only  mock  protests.  She  took  it  with  indignant 
coldness;  let  him  alone  so  severely,  that  he  retired,  more 
hurt  at  not  being  appreciated  than  he  wants  to  allow." 

"Very  good!  Dan's  a  little  too  much  even  for  me 
sometimes;  he's  amusing,  but  he's  a  cold-blooded  devil, 


YESTERDAY.  21 

and  always  makes  his  fun  out  of  the  unpleasant  side  of 
things.  Was  the  introduction  of  your  giving?" 

"No,  indeed." 

"Nor  mine  to  her  exactly." 

' '  I  didn't  say  that.     I  trust  you. " 

' '  I  hope  at  least  I'm  not  so  green  as  not  to  know  the 
difference  between  your  people  and  some  others." 

"That's  where  Hawk's  smartness  fails  him;  he  rates 
the  whole  world  too  low  to  begin  with." 

"Let  me  see; — how  old  did  you  say  Miss  Delahay 
was  ?  " 

"Oh,  you  needn't  be  sly  with  me;  twenty-one,  just. 
I  know  the  family  dates." 

'•That's  not  too  young  for  you." 

' '  Pshaw  !  how  old  am  I,  do  you  suppose  ? " 

' '  I'm  thirty-two  myself;  you  may  be  a  year  over  that. " 

"Five  more." 

' '  Bosh !  as  long  as  you're  this  side  of  forty,  she 
couldn't — " 

"Once  for  all,  that. never  will  be.  It's  enough  that 
she's  willing  not  to  be  conscious  of  my  history." 

' '  Oh,  if  you  come  to  that,  where's  she  to  find  a  man  ? 
Isn't  it  time  she  understood  the  world  a  little  better?" 

"Do  you  mean  to  take  that  mission  upon  yourself?" 

"No;  it's  your  place,   not  mine." 

"Right   enough.      But  as  to  my  affairs,   I  hope,    on 


22  YESTERDAY. 

Grace's  account,  you  don't  know  exactly  what  you're 
talking  about." 

"  You  never  told  me  much  of  anything.  Hawk  does 
say  you  were  ill-used,  and — " 

"Much  good  his  sympathy  may  do  me.  I'd  rather 
have  his  bad  word  than —  But  here  he  comes." 

"We  don't  discuss  your  family  or  your  concerns  be- 
fore him  ? " 

Tyne  nodded.  Meanwhile  Hawk,  seeing  them  stand- 
ing at  Mrs.  Bishop's  gate,  strolled  up  to  join  them,  and 
all  three  went  on  together. 

"Sorry  you've  had  your  trouble  for  nothing,  Sundon," 
said  Hawk;  "but  unless  you've  some  wonderful  discov- 
eries to  convert  them  with,  our  crowd  means  to  stay  at 
Firebrace's ;  Goring  and  Corbin  swear  they  will  anyhow, 
and  why  should  one  make  a  time  when  one  don't  care 
much  anyway?  so  I  vote  with  them.  Mont,  didn't  I 
see  your  schoolmistress  cousin  driving  a  shocking  old 
horse  up  the  side  road  just  now?  I've  met  her  at  the 
Mackenzie's;  odd  they  should  ask  her  there !  " 

"Why?"  inquired  Sundon.     Tyne  took  no  notice. 

"Come  now,  perhaps  she  isn't  always  so  stiff?  How 
have  you  amused  yourself  with  her  and  the  old  lady  ?  " 

"With  neither;  the  visit  was  only  a  matter  of  business. 
Is  this  Firebrace's?  It  don't  seem  so  neat  as  the  other, 
but  it  may  suit  us  better  for  a  vacation." 


YESTERDAY.  23 

"Oh,  Mont's  promised  everything  done  up  fresh  for 
us  by  the  time  we're  ready." 

Firebrace's  was  a  shore  farm-house  on  a  low  bank 
just  above  the  beach;  a  field  of  potatoes  separated  it 
from  Mrs.  Bishop's  water  front,  and  a  neglected  garden 
from  the  road.  Large  cherry-trees,  planted  along  the 
straight  walk  that  led  up  to  the  house,  and  others  by 
the  fences,  shaded  the  garden  and  screened  it  from  the 
street  Sundon  noticed  that  when  one  stood  at  the  gate, 
whatever  passed  in  or  out  at  Mrs.  Bishop's  could  be 
plainly  seen. 

Goring  had  gone  off  to  the  hotel,  to  arrange  with  Start 
about  boarding  his  horses;  for  neither  Firebrace  nor  ^Irs. 
Bishop  had  anything  to  offer  suitable  for  them.  Corbin, 
having  picked  out  his  two  trees,  and  been  all  over  the 
house  twice,  had  returned  to  the  garden,  and  was  star- 
ing about  at  nothing  in  particular. 

"Speculating  on  the  chances  of  the  fruit  crop,  and 
the  absence  of  furniture, "  he  remarked.  "I  hope  there'll 
be  a  fall  in  camp-stools." 

The  house,  though  as  clean  as  fresh  paint  and  white- 
wash could  make  it,  proved  rather  empty;  but  Tyne  de- 
clared that  he  would  undertake  to  supply  everything. 

"We  shan't  want  much  indoors  in  fine  weather,"  said 
Corbin;  "but  what'll  we  do  when  it  rains,  Mr.  Presi-. 
dent  and  Housekeeper  ?  " 


24  YESTERDAY. 

"Plenty.  I'll  lay  in  a  mountain  of  paper  novels 
and  a  gross  of  packs  of  cards;  Start's  isn't  too  far  be- 
tween showers,  and  there's  a  very  tolerable  billiard-table 
there. " 

' '  And  a  chance  of  seeing  new  faces,  when  we're  bored 
to  death  with  each  other's,"  put  in  Hawk. 

"Well,  have  you  anything  else  to  show  one?"  asked 
Sundon. 

"Only  the  view,"  said  Tyne,  "and  that's  rather  the 
best  thing  after  all.  Come  along  through  here." 

The  veranda  towards  the  water  was  quite  narrow,  but 
was  supplemented  by  a  strip  of  garden  a  few  paces  broad 
on  the  edge  of  the  bank,  overrun  with  young  silver  pop- 
lars, irregular  shoots  and  suckers  from  a  former  main  tree 
of  which  only  a  stump  was  left;  they  would  break  the 
force  of  the  afternoon  sun,  yet  would  not  be  thick  enough 
even  in  full  leaf  to  close  the  outlook  on  the  bright  dancing 
ripples  which  came  to  shore  in  a  gentle  surf.  A  light 
wooden  pier  ran  across  the  beach  and  far  out  enough  for 
a  large  sail-boat  to  be  anchored  at  its  end,  on  which  stood 
a  roomy  boat-house.  This  last  shut  out  part  of  the  dis- 
tance; but  by  going  through  it  and  out  upon  the  rollers 
or  the  float,  an  unobstructed  view  was  gained.  You 
found  yourself  to  be  deep  in  the  crescent  of  Gravesend 
Bay.  Opposite,  across  the  broad  spread  of  the  Lower 
.Bay,  were  the  distant  Keyport  hills;  a  strip  of  lower 


YESTERDAY.  25 

ground  joined  them  to  the  blue  headland  of  Neversink, 
from  here  seeming  to  rise  just  behind  the  white  tropical 
looking  sandspit  of  Coney  Island,  bare  and  empty  in  those 
days,  when  the  Brighton  Beaches  had  not  been  thought 
of.  It  lay  clear  and  sharp  in  the  sun;  but  a  soft  haze 
hung  on  the  Jersey  shore.  To  the  right  of  the  dock  ran 
out  a  low  yellow  point,  the  other  horn  of  the  crescent, 
beyond  it  was  Staten  Island,  the  dent  of  the  Clove  dis- 
tinctly marked  between  its  two  blue  ridges,  the  flag-crested 
green  bluff  of  the  upper  fort  and  the  gray  mass  of  ma- 
sonry of  the  lower  standing  out  against  the  sky,  and  the 
yellow  beaches  meeting  the  water. 

"On  my  word,  I  like  this  place  better  the  more  I  see 
of  it,''  Sundon  said. 

"  I  hope  you  do,"  said  Hawk,  "or  you'll  have  to  look 
up  summer  board  by  yourself.  Of  course  there'll  be 
plenty  of  mosquitoes,  but  they're  everywhere." 

' '  Where  you.  are. " 

"Oh,  I've  ordered  a  bale  of  netting  already,  and 
charged  it  to  Dan,"  said  Tyne.  "We  agreed  each  to 
contribute  something,  and  I  can  save  you  all  the  trouble 
of  deciding  what." 

"Well,  Harry,"  said  Goring,  now  rejoining  them, 
' '  what  do  you  say  to  this  ? " 

"Oh,  it's  plenty  good  enough;  why  should  we  go  pok- 
ing round  the  countrv  any  longer?" 


26  YESTERDA  Y. 

"Settled,  then.  We'll  take  the  house;  you  can  tell  that 
to  your  old  sea-serpent,  Mont.  Where  is  he  ? " 

"Gone  to  his  dinner;  he  thinks  I  can  be  trusted  to 
keep  order." 

"  That  reminds  me;  we'd  better  have  some  kind  of  a 
bite." 

' '  Where  ? "  they  all  asked.      ' '  At  Start's  ? " 

"No,  Start  isn't  fairly  open  yet,  and  lives  anyhow  while 
the  painters  and  plasterers  are  in  the  house.  I'll  take 
you  all  to  Coney  Island." 

"Rather  noisy  there,"  suggested  Tyne. 

"I  know  a  quiet  corner  and  first-rate  oysters." 

' '  Objections  withdrawn. " 

"You  all  second  the  motion,  you  fellows?'  Come 
ahead  then,  as  soon  as  we've  settled  with  Firebrace;  I  see 
him  looming  up  round  the  corner. " 


CHAPTER  II. 

f^  RACE  drove  along  the  straight  road  planted  with  lo- 
*J  cust  trees,  leafless  yet,  to  the  sleepy  little  village 
through  whose  main  street  the  railroad  passed.  The  train 
was  just  vanishing  in  the  distance,  and  a  tall,  bony,  for- 
bidding woman  in  black,  with  an  armful  of  parcels,  was 
crossing  the  track  and  coming  to  meet  her. 

"  You're  late,  Grace,"  said  Mrs.  Bishop,  for  it  was  she. 
"I  suppose  some  one  has  been  to  look  at  the  house?" 

' '  Yes,  Monteith  sent  a  friend  of  his,  but  I  am  afraid — " 

"  They  won't  take  it?  Well,  I  have  a  better  offer.  So 
that  kept  you  ?  " 

"No,  the  wagon  wasn't  sent  back  from  Smithson's  in 
time. " 

"Smithson  is  the  slowest  workman;  I  hope  it's  well 
mended  now.  Don't  turn  round;  I  want  to  go  to  the 
Belden's;  those  things  are  for  Florence.  My  telegram 
didn't  frighten  you  ?  " 

"Oh  no." 

"I  had  so  many  errands.   I  lost  the  train,  and  then 


28  YESTERDAY. 

Mary  Minot  said  I  must  stay —  Take  care  of  the  rails ! 
if  that  wheel  comes  off  again —  I  saw  the  Mackenzie  girls, 
and  they  sent  their  love.  What  about  Monteith's  friends  ? 
No,  don't  begin  to  tell  me  either;  we're  nearly  there. 
You'd  better  tie  the  horse  and  come  in  too." 

They  stopped  at  a  little  white  house,  not  out  of  sound 
of  the  locomotive  whistle,  and  within  the  village.  "Doc- 
tor Belden"  was  on  the  door.  The  lady  of  the  house,  the 
Doctor's  sister,  who  had  seen  them  from  her  window,  let 
them  in.  She  was  a  little  dark  woman,  bright-eyed  and 
spirited  in  spite  of  an  air  of  physical  delicacy,  which  last 
was  evidently  temporary  and  out  of  keeping.  Her  wel- 
come to  Mrs.  Bishop  was  dryly  civil,  to  correspond  to 
that  lady's;  but  she  kissed  Grace  warmly,  with  a  joking 
pretense  of  having  to  stand  on  tiptoe  for  the  purpose. 

"Are  you  really  off  so  soon?"  said  Grace.  "What 
shall  I  do  without  you,  I  who  see  no  signs  of  getting 
away  for  myself !  " 

"I'm  sorry,  but  it's  all  settled;  I  begin  to  pack  to- 
morrow. " 

"Do  let  me  spend  the  day  and  help  you." 

"My  dear  girl!  Felix  would  be  down  on  me  at 
once  for  inhuman  treatment  of  convalescents." 

' '  What,   when  you're  another  ?  " 

"As  if  a  few  bad  colds  in  a  winter  were  to  lay  one  on 
the  shelf  when  spring  is  so  well  under  way  !  " 


YESTERDA  Y.  29 

"I  thought  that  Doctor  Belden  considered  you  had 
congestion  of  the  lungs,  Florence,"  said  Mrs.  Bishop. 

"Only  his  medical  name  for  a  trifling  affair  enough. " 

"I  shall  come  and  see  that  you  do  not  over-fatigue 
yourself,  as  a  neighbor,"  Mrs.  Bishop  declared. 

''Many  thanks.  Only  let  me  hint  that  Felix  has  his 
o\vn  theories  of  packing,  and  I  shall  have  to  ask  you  to 
follow  some  of  them." 

"  But  there  must  be  something  easy  enough  for  me  to 
do,"  said  Grace. 

"Just  one  thing  now.  Come  in  and  talk  to  us.  I've 
been  over  my  accounts  till  the  air  is  full  of  figures,  and 
Felix  has  been  out  since  daybreak,  and  only  just  had 
breakfast;  but  now  we've  five  minutes  to  spare  both  of 
us,  so  come  in." 

She  led  the  way  into  a  small  parlor  already  half  dis- 
mantled; her  brother  was  just  taking  down  the  last  of 
the  few  pictures  (photographs,  and  modern,  but  carefully 
chosen)  from  the  walls;  he  turned,  and  his  face  lit  up 
with  a  smile  of  pleasure  when  he  saw  the  younger  of 
the  new-comers.  A  tall  fellow  not  far  from  thirty,  his 
somewhat  slight  figure  yet  looked  wiry  and  well-knit. 
His  features  were  rather  irregular,  his  coloring  fair,  in- 
clining to  the  straw-brown  tints,  and  his  eyebrows  so 
light  as  to  be  almost  invisible.  Luckily  his  eyes  were 
large  and  very  deep  blue;  accented  by  their  color,  his  face 


30  YESTERDAY. 

had  a  marked  expression;  and  though  his  heavy  light 
mustache  quite  covered  his  mouth,  one  divined  its  hon- 
est vigor  from  those  eyes.  He  wore  blonde  whiskers, 
though  not  for  Corbin's  reason,  since  his  chin  was  square 
and  well  filled  out.  His  clothes  looked  neat,  but  far 
from  new;  his  whole  effect  was  that  of  the  poor  gentle- 
man who  yet  does  not  waste  time  in  thinking  over  better 
days.  Some  people  thought  him  too  reticent  for  a  doctor; 
others  liked  him  better  for  that  very  quality;  these  last  felt 
that  he  would  not  alarm  people  with  dangerous  proba- 
bilities while  there  was  yet  hope,  and  that  he  would  keep 
to  himself  such  discoveries  in  the  affairs  of  households  as 
doctors  sometimes  cannot  help  making. 

The  smile  on  his  face  did  not  linger  long;  perhaps  be- 
cause Grace  met  it  so  gravely;  still  her  voice  sounded  not 
displeased  to  see  him.  "You  are  looking  better,"  he  said. 

"The  season  does  me  good,"  she  answered.  "I  am 
not  like  the  rest  of  you,  who  delight  in  winter;  I  am 
only  some  forlorn  sort  of  vegetable,  that  does  not  really 
begin  to  live  till  spring." 

"Yes,  Grace's  constitution  is  very  extraordinary,"  said 
Mrs.  Bishop.  "When  the  first  mild  weather  makes  every 
one  else  languid,  she  is  revived;  but  that  last  frosty  night, 
I  thought  she  would  be  ill  again.  I  hope  that  did  not 
blight  your  hyacinths,  Doctor;  most  of  mine  were  with- 
ered by  it,  having  come  on  too  fast." 


YESTERDA  Y.  3 1 

"Oh,  ours  weathered  it  famously,"  said  Felix.  "We 
must  give  you  some,  to  make  up  for  the  tricks  of  the 
season. " 

"What  if  you  take  our  friends  into  the  garden  and 
give  them  their  choice  now?"  said  Florence.  "There's 
Mrs.  Phelan  the  house-cleaner  wanting  me,  and  once  she 
catches  me,  I  don't  know  when  I  shall  get  away." 

Mrs.  Bishop,  it  now  appeared,  also  wished  an  inter- 
view with  Mrs.  Phelan,  who  was  a  person  much  in  de- 
mand in  the  neighborhood,  and  therefore  not  easily 
secured.  So  only  Felix  and  Grace  went  into  the  little 
yard  at  the  back  of  the  house,  where  from  one  garden- 
bed  spared  from  vegetables  and  currant-bushes,  the  soft 
mikl  day  was  welcomed  by  such  a  mass  of  bloom  as  con- 
tradicted in  its  richness  the  plain  seeming  of  the  place; 
yet  there  were  not  many  plants,  only  each  one  of  the  finest 

"Why,  but  what  beauties  you  have!"  said  Grace. 

"There  are  fewer  than  I  should  like,  but  they  are 
good  specimens,"  said  Felix. 

"That  they  are,  such  full  heads,  and  the  single  flow- 
ers so  large,  and  standing  out  so  well  from  each  other. 
Then  you  have  grouped  their  colors  so  well,  those  buff 
ones  with  the  violet,  that  salmon-color  with  the  dark- 
purple,  the  pink  with  the  light-blue." 

"I  tried  a  hint  of  yours  in  planting  them.     I  hope  it 

• 

has  succeeded. " 


32  YESTERDAY. 

"Perfectly."  To  herself:  "I  don't  remember;  it  must 
have  been  some  time  ago;  we  met  so  seldom  while  I 
lived  at  Yonkers.  Does  he  notice  so  closely  what  I 
say  ?  Oh,  of  course  he  lays  up  little  things  to  please 
his  sister." 

' '  Now  I  may  give  you  some  ?  " 

"Oh  no,   thank  you,  you  have  none  to  spare." 

"Oh  yes,  for  our  friends.  Look,  those  are  broken 
already,  you  must  take  them.''  To  himself:  "  If  I  could 
give  her  anything  better  !  " 

"Thank  you.  But  you  should  keep  that  peach- 
colored  one  for  your  sister.'' 

"There  is  another  by  it  that  will  be  blown  to-morrow. 
You  see  this  is  the  last  chance  I  may  have  of  giv- 
ing you  flowers.  If  it  rains  to-night,  it  will  spoil 
them. " 

"It  is  such  a  little  while  before  you  go!" 
'  "  If  I  had  started  alone,  as  I  first  planned,  I  should 
have  been  off  even  sooner.  But  when  it  came  to  the 
point,  it  was  better  we  should  not  separate.  We  have 
let  the  house  already.  I  think  I  have  prospects,  though 
professions  are  always  over-crowded,  even  in  California,  I 
believe." 

"Do  not  begin  discouraged;  surely  you  have  no  need." 
To  herself:  "That  sounds  little  enough,  but  how  shall  I 
sav  more  ?  " 


YF.STF.KDAY.  33 

"You  arc  very  kind. ''  To  himself:  "Can  she  really 
care,  or  is  that  only  politeness  ? " 

"I  am  sorry  you  do  not  stay  till  after  I  am  gone. 
(How  I  shall  miss  him  indeed;  if  we  might  meet — hut 
chance  does  not  favor  one  so.)" 

"When  do  you  start?  (If  it  only  were  with  us,  with 
me  !) '' 

"  I  do  not  know  yet;  my  plans  are  still  to  be  made; 
no  engagement  has  offered;  I  belong  also  to  an  over- 
crowded profession,"  smiling. 

"Surely  you  need  not  wait  long.  (If  I  had  anything 
to  offer  worth  her  taking  !  But  a  poor  man — my  father's 
son — ) " 

"I  hope  not.  (If  he  were  to  say,  'Come  with  me,' 
I  would  not  wait.  But  he  will  not.)" 

' '  You  have  my  best  wishes.  (And  nothing  more  ? 
Must  I  let  her  go  out  into  the  world  to  struggle  for 
her  own  life?  Yes,  for  it  might  be  harder  yet  for  her 
if  she  joined  her  fortunes  with  mine.  I  am  not  a  lucky 
man.  She  must  have  friends  who  can  help  her  better 
than  I,  whose  aid  is  very  likely  more  welcome. ) " 

"And  mine  are  yours.  Is  that  my  aunt  calling  me? 
(I  must  not  say  what  he  does  not  care  to  hear. ) " 

"Must  you  go?     (Too  soon,  always  too  soon!)" 

"This  is  not  ggod-bye  yet.  (Oh,  no,  no,  no!  I 
shall  not  lose  him  to-day  at  least. ) " 


34  YESTERDAY. 

"Not  quite.  We  have  a  few  more  days.  Let  me 
carry  your  flowers;  they  might  stain  your  gloves,  the 
stems  are  so  juicy;  I  will  put  a  paper  round  them  in 
the  house.  (Oh  yes,  and  you  can  do  no  more  for 
her  than  that;  what  are  you  worth  ?  But  some  day, 
some  day,  if  at  last  she  lets  me — ) " 

So  these  two,  with  hearts  heavy  for  each  other,  and 
each  thinking  the  other  cold,  rejoined  the  others. 

"You  have  a  long  journey  before  you,"  Mrs.  Bishop 
was  saying  to  Florence,  when  they  came  in. 

"Yes,"  Florence  answered;  "luckily  we  are  not  bad 
sailors.  It  seems  a  long  way  round,  though.  I  suppose 
now  the  Atlantic  Cable  is  a  fact,  we  shall  have  the  Pacific 
Railroad  one  of  these  days;  if  the  Indians  do  not  pull 
up  the  tracks  as  fast  as  they  are  laid,  we  shall  come  back 
by  it  to  call  on  you  some  fine  afternoon.  In  the  mean 
time,  Grace,  will  you  write  to  me  once  in  a  while?  The 
first  letter  shall  be  mine;  don't  forget  that  the  second  is 
yours,  if  once  you  agree." 

"Willingly.  As  often  as  you  send  me  questions,  I 
shall  answer  them." 

"That's  a  bargain;  you  shall  see  how  I  mean  to  keep 
you  to  it" 

"Are  you  sure  she  will  care  to  write?"  Felix  asked  his 
sister  after  Grace  was  gone. 

"You  foolish  fellow,  trust  me  to  make  her,"  Florence 


YESTERDAY.  35 

answered.  Felix  had  not  taken  her  into  his  confidence, 
still  less  Grace;  but  clearer-sighted  than  either,  she  di- 
vined the  state  of  affairs  on  both  sides. 

"Perhaps — "  Felix  began. 

"Well?" 

"Oh,  nothing;  I  dare  say  you  know  best,  after  all. 
Here  comes  the  express  with  the  packing-boxes." 

The  Beldens  had  had  much  to  discourage  them  in 
their  family  history.  Felix's  father,  a  merchant  well  to 
do  and  well  thought  of,  when  seemingly  on  the  point 
of  winning  a  great  fortune,  had  sudden  heavy  losses,  and 
in  trying  tp  make  them  good,  became  so  heavily  and 
questionably  involved  that  he  shot  himself  to  escape  be- 
ing called  to  account  Among  the  people  he  brought 
to  poverty  was  his  own  daughter,  Florence,  who  after  the 
deaths  of  her  mother  and  her  husband  had  returned  to 
live  with  her  father,  and  intrusted  to  him  the  care  of 
her  little  property. 

It  was  just  at  this  moment  that  Felix  Belden  had  fin- 
ished his  studies,  and  was  expecting  to  make  a  fair,  per- 
haps a  brilliant  start,  being  considered  a  young  man  of 
great  professional  promise. 

The  brother  and  sister  gave  up  to  the  creditors  every- 
thing that  was  left  except  some  real  estate,  which,  for  the 
moment,  was  practically  worthless,  but  which  they  were 
assured  must,  in  the  course  of  time,  rise  so  much  in 


36  YF.STF.KDAY. 

value,  that  the  proceeds  of  the  sale  of  it  would  be  enough 
to  settle  all  claims.  They  then  retired  to  the  little  Long 
Island  house,  the  rent  of  which,  till  Felix  could  establish 
himself  in  practice,  Florence  undertook  to  help  in  making 
up  by  fine  sewing.  "You  have  nobody  to  give  you  an 
opening  in  any  other  line  but  your  own,  and  you  love 
that  too  well  already  to  miss  succeeding  in  it,"  she  told  him. 

"I  must  get  on  on  your  account,"  he  answered,  "for 
I  mean  myself  to  assume  our  father's  debt  to  you." 

"That  is  not  fair;  indeed  I  cannot  hear  of  it;  you 
must  not  do  any  such  thing,"  she  protested,  but  to  no 
use,  as  she  discovered  when  the  time  came.  But  that 
was  years  after.  Meanwhile,  the  month's  end  brought 
Felix's  first  opportunity.  The  war  broke  out,  and  he 
enlisted  as  an  army  surgeon.  "Now  I  have  something 
to  do  at  once,  and  steady  pay  for  it,  if  you  can  put  up 
with  my  leaving  you,  Florence." 

"It  won't  be  for  long." 

"Longer  than  you  think.  This  war  will  not  be  fin- 
ished on  the  first  battle-field;  and  we  shall  be  only  too 
lucky  if  the  end  of  the  fighting  is  the  end  of  the  struggle. " 

"Well,  anyhow,   my  dear  boy,   do  you  go." 

Felix's  army  career  brought  him  reputation,  but  not 
much  money.  At  the  end  of  it,  he  returned  to  Long 
Island,  and  his  small  practice  there,  for  the  time,  but 
with  a  determination  to  venture  his  lot  somewhere  else 


YESTERDAY.  37 

on  the  first  chance.  When  a  former  comrade  who  had 
found  good  fortune  in  San  Francisco  suggested  to  him  to 
try  what  he  could  do  there,  he  was  quite  ready  for  the 
move.  Two  circumstances  influenced  him  further;  his 
sister's  health  had  given  him  much  anxiety  through  the 
winter;  and  his  growing  love  for  Grace  Delahay  made 
him  eager  to  win  the  power  to  test  her  feeling  towards 
him.  They  had  been  children  together,  and  even  then 
sympathetic  to  each  other  as  children  rarely  are;  of  late 
years  they  had  met  less  often,  but  every  time  had  been 
precious  to  him.  Still,  poor  as  he  was,  how  could  he 
think  of  marriage?  said  he  to  himself.  Westward-ho, 
then !  Florence's  life  and  his  love  might  be  lost  by 
staying  at  home. 

"The  Beldens  will   be   rather   a   loss,"   Mrs.    Bishop 
said  to  Grace,  as  they  drove  away;    "Florence  at  least; 
I'm  never  quite  certain  about  Felix;  scientific  men  have 
queer  ideas,  and  his  father's  son — well,  we  shall  see." 
"Nothing  but  good,    I  imagine." 
"Do  you  know  him  so  well,   Grace?" 
"My  father  always  thought  highly  of  him,  aunt" 
"Your   father — I   valued   your   father,    certainly;    but 
he  was   too  easy  in  his  judgment  of  people;   some  of 
the   visitors  at  his  house  I  should   not   like   to  see  in 
mine." 


38  YRSTERDAY. 

"Your  Cousin  Monteith,  for  instance.  I  never  un- 
derstood why  your  mother  allowed  that  acquaintance  to 
go  on  after  he  returned  from  Europe." 

"You  were  not  with  us  then,"  Grace  answered.  She 
remembered  very  well  how  Tyne  had  come  to  see  them 
("between  the  steamer  and  the  camp, "as  he  said,  hav- 
ing volunteered  on  the  day  of  landing),  and  taken  a 
farewell  of  his  two  kinswomen,  more  sadly  than  she 
could  guess  why,  till  after  he  was  gone,  her  mother 
gave  her  some  hint  of  a  wasted  and"  mis-spent  life;  and 
how.  he  had  returned  when  peace  came,  saying  at  first, 
bitterly,  "  So  I  have  cheated  you  by  not  getting  killed 
after  all,"  and  finally,  after  her  mother's  gentle  remon- 
strance: "Well,  let  me  have  a  little  care  of  you  two,  and 
I  shan't  feel  so  disappointed  at  not  meeting  my  Rebel 
bullet."  But  none  of  this  would  she  tell  to  Mrs.  Bishop, 
who  now  went  on: 

' '  Do  you  expect  him  to  keep  it  up,  now  you  are 
under  my  roof? " 

"My  mother  and  I  always  found  my  Cousin  Mont 
a  gentleman,  and  the  kindest  of  friends  besides.  I  can- 
not forget  that  at  your  asking;  I  know  what  is  due  to 
you;  but,  you  see,  I  owe  him  something  also.  If  }ou 
wish,  I  will  tell  him  not  to  come  to  see  me  at  your 
house;  but  I  shall  not  like  to  give  such  a  message,  for 
I  do  not  think  it  fair  to  him." 


YESTERDAY.  39 

"Tell  me  one  thing,  Grace;  are  either  of  you  in 
love  with  the  other?" 

"No,  aunt,  you  may  be  easy  on  that  score." 

"Well,  then,  I  suppose  he  may  visit  you.  He  under- 
stands what  I  think  of  him." 

"Do  you  really  know  anything  against  him  since  he 
came  back  from  abroad  ?  " 

"Only  that  he  still  goes  about  with  a  good  many 
very  worthless  men.  I  would  not  care  to  have  him  and 
his  party  in  my  house,  if  I  never  let  it;  besides  I  have  a 
very  good  offer  already;  the  Waldrons  will  come  to  see  us 
to-morrow,  and  I  think  I  am  sure  of  them.  I've  heard  of 
Monteith's  friends;  a  pretty  set !  Did  he  bring  them  all  ? " 

"Only  one,  a  Mr.    Harry  Sundon. " 

"Brought  him  to  my  house,  and  you  there!" 

"I  was  not  supposed  to  be." 

"I  must  speak  to  Monteith.  Why,  Mr.  Sundon 's 
an  actor/' 

"Yes.     Is  that  all?" 

"All  I  know  positively.  People  tell  you  in  a  general 
way  that  he's  very  dissipated.  But  of  course  he  is  if  he's 
on  the  stage.  They  all  are.  He  must  be  a  vulgar  crea- 
ture, to  judge  from  the  pictures  of  him  that  stare  at  you 
from  every  tobacco-shop  in  New  York."  Mrs.  Bishop 
was  more  observing,  in  her  own  fashion,  than  her  nephew 
supposed. 


40  YESTERDAY. 

"They  do  him  no  more  justice  than  usual  with  such 
things.  He  is  rather  handsome,  and  not  at  all  vulgar; 
at  least,  he  knows  how  to  take  his  cue  from  the  people 
he  meets,  and  would  not  be  familiar  if  he  was  given  no 
chance;  still,  I  do  not  believe  I  should  ever  like  him 
himself  as  well  as  I  do  his  acting.  But  who  are  the 
others?  Mont  did  not  tell  me;  only  said  they  would 
take  the  Firebrace  house,  after  all." 

"There's  Charley  Corbin,  his  mother  was  an  old 
schoolmate  of  mine,  Kitty  Doon;  she's  a  widow  now, 
and  he  gives  her  a  great  deal  of  anxiety. " 

"He  seems  a  harmless  sort  of  youth  by  nature,  after 
all." 

"Maybe.  We  might  have  him  call  here,  since  you 
know  him;  his  mother  would  like  it.  Ever  since  he  was 
taken  into  Mr.  Goring's  office,  she  has  been  very  uneasy. " 

"Mr.   Goring  the  banker?" 

' '  Yes. " 

"  What  is  he  like?" 

"A  great  noisy  man  that  talks  loud  in  boats  and  cars, 
and  keeps  all  sorts  of  extraordinary  horses,  and  is  very 
rich  and  extravagant,  and  drinks,  I  am  sure.  It  was  a 
good  business  position  for  Charley,  but  Kitty  feels  the 
moral  influences  there  are  bad,  and  begged  me  that  we 
would  try  and  counteract  them;  after  such  a  request  from 
a  friend  we  might  make  an  exception,  in  spite  of  our 


YESTERDAY.  41 

mourning.  Mr.  Goring,  you  see,  is  of  this  party;  and 
so  is  Mr.  Hawk,  your  friend  Emma  Minot's  admirer." 

"I  have  no  fancy  for  him,  and  I  hope  she  has  none 
either." 

"She  has  refused  him.      Her  mother  told  me  so." 

"  I  don't  wonder." 

"Nobody  seems  to  know  much  against  him;  he's 
very  clever,  and  very  successful;  but  everybody's  afraid  of 
him.  The  Minots  thought  him  mercenary,  too.  To 
be  sure  they  are  suspicious." 

"Poor  Emma!  Poor  little  heiress!  I  am  glad  I 
have  no  money." 

"Ah,  Grace,  money  is  a  good  thing,  after  better  ones, 
of  course.  When  I  think  that  you  might  have  been  as 
great  a  match  as  Emma,  if  your  father  had  only  been 
more  prudent !  " 

"I  would  rather  be  as  I  am." 

This  Mrs.  Bishop  could  not  understand;  nor  did  Grace 
expect  it  She  knew  that  with  her  mother  she  had  lost 
for  the  time  sympathetic  womanly  companionship. 


CHAPTER   III. 

HARRY  SUN  DON  was  an  actor  by  destiny,  one  might 
Si\y;  the  representative  of  a  family  whose  traditions 
were  of  the  stage,  so  far  as  they  could  be  traced  back, 
with  little  interruption.  The  original  stock  was  English; 
the  first  one  known  of  it,  Jack  Sundon,  was  a  foundling 
picked  up  by  a  kind-hearted  farmer  one  winter  evening 
in  a  lonely  lane;  he  took  his  surname  from  the  nearest 
town,  when  he  came  to  need  one;  who  or  what  his  real 
parents  were  no  one  ever  knew,  though  the  farmer's  wife 
always  declared  at  least  one  of  them  must  have  been  of 
gentle  blood.  Jack,  as  he  grew  older,  certainly  had  a 
natural  grace  and  curious  wayward  brilliancy  different 
from  the  plain  people  about  him.  His  adopted  pa- 
rents expected  great  things  of  him;  but  they  died  when 
he  was  only  fifteen,  and  the  next  of  kin  turned  him 
out  to  shift  for  himself.  He  joined  a  company  of 
strolling  players  and  made  his  way  gradually  to  Lon- 
don; there,  after  a  hard  and  disheartening  struggle,  he 
found  himself  at  last  one  day  a  popular  actor.  The 


YESTERDAY.  43 

diarists  and  letter-writers  of  the  last  century  record  their 
enthusiasm  for  him,  some  even  preferring  him  above  his 
more  famous  rivals  on  account  of  a  certain  strong  and 
serious  simplicity  in  his  acting,  which  they  declare  to 
have  had  wonderful  effect  in  tragic  parts.  However,  his 
career  was  short;  he  died  of  a  malignant  fever  at  thirty- 
five  in  the  prime  of  his  powers  and  success.  He  left  a 
widow  and  one  child.  The  stricken  woman,  disowned 
before  by  her  prosperous  ' '  tradesman "  father  for  her 
marriage,  had  been  devoted  to  her  husband;  and  not- 
withstanding his  uncertain  temper  and  wayward  nature, 
he  had  recognized  her  devotion  enough  to  make  her 
happy  in  her  recollections.  She  brought  up  their  boy, 
Alphonso,  to  admire  his  father  and  his  father's  profes- 
sion; so  that  in  due  time  he  also  appeared  on  the 
boards,  and  in  similar  parts. 

Unfortunately  the  inevitable  comparison  between  the 
two  Sundons  was  -not  at  all  in  the  younger  one's  favor. 
Alphonso  had  failed  to  inherit  his  father's  simple  genius; 
with  a  certain  amount  of  talent,  he  was  studied  and  af- 
fected at  his  best  after  all.  His  character  showed  the 
same  differences;  instead  of  the  dash  and  spontaneous- 
ness  of  an  imprudent  but  attractive  nature,  he  was  as 
formal,  cold,  and  "respectable"  by  temperament  as 
his  own  maternal  grandfather  could  desire.  An  early 
marriage  with  a  lively  little  actress  of  French  parentage 


44  YESTEKDA  Y. 

was  rather  out  of  keeping  with  all  this,  it  is  true;  but 
Stella  died  at  the  birth  of  her  first  child.  When  in 
good  time  Alphonso  wished  to  marry  again,  he  chose 
a  wife  from  among  his  mother's  people,  and  was  .  al- 
lowed to  have  her,  on  condition  of  leaving  the  stage 
and  going  into  his  father-in-law's  business.  This  he 
not  unwillingly  did,  for  his  theatrical  career  was  threat- 
ening to  end  in  failure  in  the  near  future.  He  was 
not  so  very  much  more  successful  in  his  new  line,  but 
on  the  whole  it  pleased  him  better.  There  were  a  num- 
ber of  children  by  this  marriage,  staid  and  practical  young 
people  one  and  all;  th^>  finding  it  hard  to  keep  afloat 
in  England  on  means  a  good  deal  limited  by  the  nee  1 
of  dividing  among  so  r  any,  sought  their  fortunes  in 
Canada;  they  were  to  ^  excessively  British  to  approve 
of  the  United  Sta..-;  as  a  place  of  abode,  beside,  their 
father  had  had  a  not  over  Kicky  theatrical  trip  there, 
which  made  the  family  connection  look  upon  that  country 
with  great  distrust. 

It  happened  though  that  Alphonso  Sundon's  eldest 
boy  Frederic,  being  of  a  different  strain,  turned  out  other- 
wise. His  father  looked  upon  him  from  the  first  as  a 
memorial  of  mishaps  which  it  would  have  been  more 
agreeable  to  forget;  he  was  poor  little  Stella's  son,  and 
born  during  that  unfortunate  American  tour.  Still,  when 
he  began  to  develop  into  an  unquestionably  clever  young 


YESTERDAY.  45 

• 

fellow,  much  more  promising  than  his  brothers  and  sisters, 
Alphonso  dreamed  of  a  distinguished  clerical  career  for 
him.  It  was  a  rude  awakening  when  Fred  declared  he 
would  hear  of  no  such  thing;  that  he  meant  to  go  on  the 
stage,  and  in  comedy  at  that  The  young  man  would 
have  his  way,  his  father's  opposition  proving  entirely  fu- 
tile. Furthermore,  two  or  three  trips  to  America  brought 
Fred  to  make  the  United  States  his  home;  he  rarely  vis- 
ited England  henceforth,  and  without  actual  quarrel  be- 
came notwithstanding  estranged  from  his  family;  his  father 
excepted,  they  had  no  more  to  do  with  his  history. 

Fred  Sundon's  professional  success  was  very  marked, 
and  continued  all  his  life;  he  played  to  crowded  houses 
till  within  a  week  of  his  death.  He  was  all  the  more 
popular  perhaps  that  his  talent  was  not  of  a  genial  kind; 
his  great  strength  lay  in  those  touches  of  satiric  bitterness 
which  are  always  the  fashion,  always  in  common  nature; 
touches  which  are  usually  imagined  refinements,  though 
in  actual  life  they  mark  the  street-boy  and  the  school- 
boy rather  than  the  man  who  really  knows  the  world;  this 
was  his  art,  in  which  he  was  perfect;  it  was  neither  af- 
fectation nor  study  with  him;  he  was  born  a  comedian, 
not  for  love  of  laughter  or  enjoyment  of  life,  but  from 
the  demands  of  morbidly  keen  critical  instincts  and  of  a 
sense  of  the  ridiculous  which  was  an  analyst's,  not  a  hu- 
morist's. His  first  deliberate  criticism  was  of  his  father, 


46  YESTERDAY. 

as  a  decidedly  absurd  person  (though,  through  all  their 
oppositions,  he  could  not  help  some  affection  for  him); 
and  he  did  not  spare  any  one  else  more;  neither  had  he 
any  pity  for  himself;  perhaps  his  sharpest  wounds  were 
those  given  him  by  his  own  blunders  and  shortcomings. 
As  he  made  no  secret  of  his  disposition,  he  had  few 
friends;  most  people  were  moved  to  impatience  by  his 
outspoken  bitterness;  and  the  world,  which  expects  those 
who  amuse  it  to  be  always  amusing,  without  stopping  to 
consider  on  its  part  what  the  quality  of  the  entertainment 
may  portend,  voted  him  insufferable  except  on  the  stage. 
This  pleased  him  in  a  grim  way,  as  many  things  in  life 
did  that  would  have  distressed  other  natures;  but  not  all; 
he  had  his  tender  spot  too. 

There  had  been  one  crushing  disappointment  in  his 
life,  which  he  could  not  laugh  at  or  ignore, — his  mar- 
riage. He  prided  himself  on  never  being  taken  in,  and 
was  sure  he  understood  the  woman  he  fell  in  love 
with;  though  he  had  great  confidence  in  his  own  powers 
of  pleasing  when  he  chose,  he  was  inclined  to  think  he 
ran  some  risk.  Still  he  ventured  his  happiness  for  the 
sake  of  her  beauty,  her  gayety,  her  easy  temperament 
that  rested  him  from  his  own.  Afterwards  he  wished 
that  he  could  have  pleaded  blindness  at  first,  and  thereby 
gained  the  right  to  reproach  her  more.  Still  he  clung 
to  her  till  she  forsook  him;  then  he  let  her  go  without 


YESTERDAY.  47 

further  effort  to  retain  her.  She  left  him  their  child,  a 
boy  of  six  years  old,  whom  she  had  also  loved  a  little  while, 
then  neglected,  disregarded,  forgotten.  Fred  Sundon,  in 
the  bitterness  of  his  heart, — wounded  in  his  love  and 
in  his  pride,  thinking  himself  the  joke  or  the  pity  of  his 
acquaintance,  ridiculous  as  well  as  injured  in  his  own 
eyes, — imagined  at  first  that  the  last  ridicule  and  the 
last  injury  had  not  been  spared  him,  and  that  the  boy 
was  probably  not  his  own.  Still  nothing  was  sure,  and 
the  creature  could  not  be  thrown  away  with  the  mother's 
old  gloves  and  broken  fans.  Fred  heard  of  a  country 
boarding  school  which  was  highly  recommended  and 
not  at  all  dear;  he  sent  Harry  there,  and  forgot  him  fur 
the  time. 

A  day  came,  however,  when  Fred,  having  an  engage- 
ment for  a  season  in  England,  took  the  first  occasion  to 
see  his  father,  now  grown  very  old.  Alphonso  was  cared 
for  by  a  stiff  little  daughter  of  the  second  brood,  w!.o 
only  waited  his  death  to  join  the  rest  in  Canada.  He 
had  become  so  indifferent  to  life  that  she  was  startled 
at  the  enthusiasm  which  he  showed  in  renewing  old  ties 
with  the  son  of  his  youth, — a  half-brother  who  actually 
frightened  her,  he  was  such  an  unaccustomed  personage 
and  had  such  a  man-of-the-world  air.  The  grandfather 
had  been  brooding,  it  soon  appeared,  on  the  thought 
of  the  grandson  he  had  never  seen.  The  mother  being 


48  YKSTEKDAY. 

now  dead  and  safely  out  of  the  way,  Fred  was  willing 
to  consider  the  idea,  and  had  begun  a  letter  direct- 
ing that  Harry  should  be  sent  out  to  him,  when  Al- 
phonso  suddenly  died.  The  letter  was  not  finished; 
but  from  that  time  Fred's  thoughts  began  to  center  on 
Harry. 

"The  boy  can't  be  left  at  school  for  ever;  he's  fifteen 
already;  I  must  do  something  with  him,"  was  the  first 
idea;  then  came  the  question,  "what?"  followed  by  the 
conviction,  "I  must  see  him  before  I  can  tell."  The 
few  duty  letters  Harry  and  the  schoolmaster  wrote  gave 
no  clew  as  to  the  real  nature  of  the  boy;  nor  any  in- 
formation to  speak  of  about  the  school  either.  At  that 
the  father  grew  uneasy.  If  the  place  were  a  bad  one, 
perhaps,  and  Harry  were  injured  by  harsh  training, 
stunted  in  body  or  mind,  made  sullen,  cowardly, 
false — 

Fred  had  almost  forgotten  his  old  suspicions,  and 
could  now  hardly  wait  for  his  engagement  to  be  up 
before  he  went  to  find  out  the  result  of  his  first  indif- 
ference. When  at  last  the  time  came,  and  he  saw  his 
boy  again,  the  relief  was  great,  even  to  the  extent  of 
making  a  movement  in  his  life  towards  happiness, — a 
change  he  had  believed  absolutely  impossible. 

The  school  turned  out  ' '  a  very  harmless  one, "  as  Fred 
put  it.  The  air  and  climate  were  good,  the  other  influ- 


YESTERDAY.  49 

ences  not  bad;  the  boys  had  plenty  to  eat,  and  were  not 
overworked.  In  the  matter  of  scholarship  the  institution 
did  not  rank  very  high,  but  whoever  wanted  to  learn 
something  could  at  least  make  a  good  beginning;  while 
for  play  such  as  young  growing  creatures  need  there  was 
plenty  of  chance;  they  rowed  and  swam  in  summer  and 
skated  in  winter,  there  being  a  river  convenient;  they  had 
a  large  playground,  where  a  base-ball  nine  practiced  its 
way  towards  what  nowadays  would  be  amateur  distinction, 
and  smaller  games  filled  up  the  corners;  the  farm  which 
provided  supplies  for  the  establishment,  being  near  at 
hand,  contributed  to  occasions  of  amusement  in  various 
ways.  If  the  discipline  was  slack,  at  least  it  gave  little 
room  for  temptations  to  evade  it;  and  so  few  things  were 
forbidden  that  the  boys  had  not  much  to  be  deceitful 
about. 

As  for  Fred's  own  boy,  the  father  found  him  ' '  surpris- 
ingly attractive,"  he  said.  Harry  was  unquestionably  a 
Sundon,  though  handsomer  than  they  had  been  since 
Great-grandfather  Jack's  day.  Fred  inclined  to  lament  his 
own  looks,  notwithstanding  their  defects  were  sometimes  an 
advantage  professionally;  but  he  was  pleased  to  see  that 
Harry  "had  a  fairer  start  on  that  line."  Then  he  had 
feared  shyness,  instead  of  the  frank  welcome  he  had  met; 
and  awkwardness,  whereas  Harry  was  quick  and  easy  in 
movement  and  manner;  and  stupidity,  when  after  all  the 


50  YESTERDAY. 

boy  was  the  cleverest  in  school.  Not  the  best  scholar, 
though.  The  master  lamented  that  he  would  only  do 
what  he  fancied,  and  that  his  inclinations  were  only  strong 
in  the  way  of  "speaking  pieces"  and  kindred  matters; 
no  other  studies  interested  him,  and  with  all  his  abilities 
he  was  generally  behind  the  duller  but  more  painstaking 
of  his  companions.  "I  confess,  Mr.  Sundon,  I  am  at 
my  wit's  end  with  him  sometimes;  promising  as  he  is,  I 
do  not  know  what  you  will  make  of  him." 

"Something  in  my  own  profession,  I  rather  think, "an- 
swered Fred.  "That's  good  enough  for  any  man  who 
knows  how  to  do  it." 

"  Perhaps  he  would  prefer  some  other  calling,  though," 
suggested  the  schoolmaster,  with  an  involuntary  air  of  mild 
surprise. 

"Oh,  he  shall  have  his  say;  I  don't  force  any  one  be- 
longing to  me  to  go  against  the  grain;  I  know  it's  no  use. 
We'll  have  a  bit  of  talk  together  by  ourselves,  and  I'll  soun 
see  what  he'll  turn  to." 

As  his  father  had  hoped  (though  not  expected,  holding 
the  theory  of  the  contradictory  nature  of  things),  Harry 
took  at  once  to  the  idea  of  acting.  "What  fun!  I 
should  like  nothing  better." 

"Not  so  much  of  a  joke  as  you  think,  though.  If  you 
want — and  I  hope  my  son  does;  I  did — to  distinguish  your- 
self, to  do  something  better  than  make  a  living,  and  be 


YESTRKDAY.  51 

something  more  than  the  common  run  of  stock  actors,  it 
isn't  enough  to  trust  to  your  wits  and  your  observation. 
You'll  have  to  study  hard  if  you  mean  to  be  what  you 
ought. " 

Harry's  face  lengthened  a  little. 

"I  shan't  be  satisfied,"  Fred  went  on,  "till  I  see  you  as 
good  an  actor  as  the  French  ones;  and  if  you  should  come 
short,  don't  let  it  be  for  want  of  trying  and  working  for 
it.  I  tell  you  what,  the  thing's  worth  doing,  though  you 
mayn't  believe  me." 

"  Why  shouldn't  I,  father?  You've  had  the  chance  of 
knowing. " 

"That's  something,  if  you  see  that;  I  was  afraid  you 
wouldn't,  since  you've  had  no  experience;  but  now  you 
shall  have.  I  can't  do  anything  else  for  you,  but  I  can  do 
that;  I  know  my  world,  and  have  influence  in  it,  but  not 
in-«my  other.  There  I  can  push  you  when  you're  fit  to  be 
pushed;  nowhere  else." 

"Oh,  I'll  make  the  best  of  it,  and  I'm  sure  it's  worth 
while,  don't  be  afraid.  I've  heard  of  you,  father,  way  up 
here  just  as  much  as  anywhere;  people  know  all  over  the 
country  who  you  are  and  what  you  can  do;  you've  made 
a  name  that  even  the  newspapers  can't  get  away  from  you." 

"And  you  must  do  as  much,  and  more  if  you  can;  if 
you  can  beat  me  at  my  own  game,  so  much  the  better. 
We'll  see."  Fred  felt  a  curious  unaccustomed  thrill  as 


52  YF.STEKDAY. 

he  spoke,  more  of  pain  than  pleasure.  "Here  I  have 
been  forgetting  my  boy,"  he  thought,  "and  all  this  time 
he  has  been  proud  of  me." 

For  the  next  ten  years  the  father  and  son  were  con- 
stant companions,  and  great  friends  in  their  own  way. 
The  young  men  wondered  how  Harry  got  on  with  such 
a  queer  old  bear;  the  elders,  how  Fred  Sundon,  who  in- 
clined to  a  quiet  life  for  himself,  could  put  up  with  such 
a  reckless  young  Bohemian.  But  Fred  declared,  "  I  ex- 
pect boys  to  be  cold  and  selfish,  and  any  warmth  or  gen- 
erosity on  the  part  of  mine  pleases  me  a  long  time,  par- 
ticularly as  the  times  lap  over; "  while  Harry's  answer  was 
simpler:  "  How  can  you  quarrel  with  anybody  that,  no 
matter  what  he  says,  always  leaves  you  to  your  own  way?" 
Certainly  Fred  never  tried  to  control  his  son's  actions;  he 
spoke  his  mind  frankly  when  anything  seemed  amiss  to 
him,  and  that  happened  quite  often;  but  that  was  all, 
from  the  first.  ' '  What  can  I  do  ? "  he  said.  ' '  The  boy's 
too  old  for  me  to  be  beating  him  or  locking  him  up,  and 
if  I  keep  him  short  he'll  be  borrowing  of  people  who  can't 
very  well  lend,  next  thing.  He'll  know  better  some  day; 
I've  been  as  foolish  in  my  time."  • 

"Yes,  boys  must  sow  their  wild  oats,"  commented  an 
elderly  acquaintance,  who  had  by  no  means  left  off  that 
kind  of  field-work. 

"  It's  done  you  so  much  good  !  "  said  Fred,  with  a  sud- 


YESTERDAY.  53 

den  snap,  which  so  disconcerted  the  speaker  that  he  for- 
got he  had  come  to  borrow  five  dollars. 

Not  long  before  his  death,  Fred  spoke  out  once  for  all 
what  he  hoped  and  feared. 

' '  There's  no  question  to  me,  Harry,  that  you'll  be  the 
best  of  us;  you  have  a  career  before  you;  you  can  trifle  as 
well  as  I,  and  you  can  make  melodrama  seem  real  trag- 
edy, which  I  can't  You  won't  have  me  to  criticise  you 
much  longer,  I  think;  and  now  you  can  do  without  me, 
and  it  won't  matter.  But  I  wish  I  could  be  as  easy  about 
your  personal  as  your  professional  future;  I  see  rocks 
ahead  there,  and  I  don't  see  why  you  should  waste  your 
time  finding  them  out  You  will,  though;  you're  your 
mother's  son  as  well  as  mine,  worse  luck.  You'll  never 
be  false,  but  you'll  always  be  too  fond  of  your  own  way  to 
think  beforehand  of  where  it  may  bring  you." 

"You  don't  think  I'm  a  fool,   father." 

"No;  but  I  think  you  do  plenty  of  foolish  things,  and 
some  day  you  may  slip  into  something  more  than  foolish, 
and  not  get  out  of  it  If  you  could  live  for  your  profes- 
sion alone,  you'd  be  safe;  but  I  don't  believe  any  one 
ever  did,  and  I  know  you  can't;  it's  not  in  you,  you're 
not  strong  enough." 

"You'll  see  that  I  am." 

"I  shan't  see  that  you're  not,  you  mean.  Don't 
promise  what  you  can't  do.  I've  loved  you  better  than 


54  YESTRKDAY. 

anything  else,  but  I've  understood  you,  just  as  I  have  other 
things.  I  shall  hate  it,  not  to  be  about  any  more  to 
help  you  out  of  tight  places;  but  my  time's  coming." 

It  did  come,  sooner  even   than   Fred  expected. 

In  spite  of  Harry's  genuine  love  for  his  father  and 
grief  for  him,  certain  people  declared  that  Fred  Sundon 
had  had  no  real  influence  over  the  young  man,  and 
that  "he  would  go  to  the  dogs  without  stopping  now." 
They  were  soon  put  in  the  wrong.  Harry  had  much 
in  himself  to  distract  him  from  any  one  course  of  life, 
to  be  sure;  a  social  temperament  (in  spite  of  a  quick 
temper),  a  great  deal  of  curiosity  about  his  fellow-crea- 
tures and  their  ways,  and  an  unlimited  capacity  for  en- 
joying himself,  simply  as  well  as  luxuriously.  Besides, 
impulsive  as  he  was,  he  was  capable  of  receiving 
impressions  at  once  sudden  and  lasting;  a  feeling  which 
came  quickly  did  not  always  pass  away  as  soon  with 
him,  but  was  likely  to  remain  or  return.  Most  people 
will  not  believe  there  are  such  natures;  but  it  is  true. 

Notwithstanding,  the  stuff  of  an  artist  was  in  him, 
and  his  father  had  brought  it  out;  with  comparatively 
little  trouble,  too;  since  Harry,  beside  the  love  of  his 
work  and  the  ambition  to  succeed,  was  gifted  with  a 
natural  ease  in  using  his  powers  such  as  is  not  the  por- 
tion of  every  genius  even;  this  might  have  been  a  disad- 
vantage and  a  cause  of  failure,  to  be  sure,  and  yet  it 


Yt.STERD.AY.  55 

did  not  so  turn  out.  Certainly  a  young  fellow  with  only 
self-control  enough  to  check  him  from  making  himself 
ridiculous  to  his  companions,  and  no  fixed  principles 
beyond  the  idea  of  keeping  his  word  and  cheating  no- 
body, may  lead  a  very  unsteady  life.  Still  such  a  man 
is  no  worse,  better  indeed,  for  having  a  calling  which 
demands  —  as.  all  artistic  callings  do  —  that,  to  pro- 
duce any  succession  of  important  results,  both  body  and 
mind  must  be  a  good  deal  in  tune.  Otherwise  the  bril- 
liant record  cuts  itself  short  after  the  first  page,  or  dwin- 
dles into  mediocrity.  Harry  was  too  proud  at  heart  to 
accept  either  of  these  alternatives. 

He  had  not,  as  a  young  actor,  the  personal  popularity 
of  some;  but  that  troubled  him  little.  "The  ladies  don't 
all  want  my  photograph,  as  they  do  So-and-So's, "  he 
said;  "but  those  pretty  little  hands  can't  clap  loud,  after 
all;  so  we  are  even."  Part  of  his  audience  indeed  de- 
clared that  he  played  the  villain  too  well  for  them  to 
forget  it  when  they  saw  him  as.  the  lover  in  the  next 
piece;  and  part  preferred  a  tragedian's  costumes  and 
speeches  to  the  more  everyday  appearance  and  language 
of  a  "dress-coat  actor;"  such  a  judgment  was  more  the 
fashion,  perhaps,  when  Harry's  career  began,  than  it 
would  be  now;  people  drew  the  line  then  more  sharply 
between  the  "legitimate  drama"  and  the  "adapted 
French  plays''  in  which  he  found  his  element.  N«>r- 


56  YESTERDAY. 

withstanding,  he  had  a  strong  party,  particularly  among 
the  men,  who  voted  him  "a  capital  actor,  and  a  first- 
rate  fellow  besides;  best  company  in  the  world,  for  all 
he's  a  trifle  quick-tempered.  He's  too  much  of  a  man 
for  the  girls,  that's  all."  This  was  Goring's  opinion, 
and  he  was  an  authority  in  masculine  circles.  But  there 
was  another  side  of  the  case  (which  Goring  would  have 
laughed  at,  to  be  sure,  had  he  known  it,  not  having  any 
such  feeling  himself).  The  truth  was,  that  though  Harry 
was  ready  to  make  himself  agreeable  to  women  if  they 
came  in  his  way,  he  did  not  then  think  their  society  worth 
seeking.  He  had  a  secret  sensitiveness  which  led  him  to 
resent  patronage  always,  and  even  petting  sometimes;  in- 
tercourse with  the  better  class  of  women  seemed  to  him 
to  involve  both;  he  did  not  feel  with  them  as  if  he  was 
being  frankly  met  on  equal  ground,  and  he  preferred  to 
see  little  of  them. 

The  world  thought  it  understood  him  entirely,  when 
he  surprised  it  in  the  time  of  the  Great  Rebellion,  by 
volunteering  in  a  New  York  regiment  just  before  Gettys- 
burg was  fought.  "  Haven't  much  to  do  in  the  summer, 

you  know,  and  the Theater  going  to  pieces  has  broken 

up  my  winter  engagements,"  were  all  the  reasons  he  gave; 
he  was  afraid  his  friends  of  that  time  would  laugh  at  him 
if  he  owned  his  enthusiasm  for  the  cause  and  his  sense 
of  shame  at  staying  behind.  But  people  guessed  it, 


YESTERDAY.  57 

and  when  he  came  back  to  New  York  at  the  end  of 
the  war,  it  made  his  return  to  his  old  place  in  his  own 
city  all  the  easier. 

Or^e  thing  he  brought  back  from  the  field  was  a 
friend — Monteith  Tyne. 

Mrs.  Bishop  had  had  reasons  for  her  estimate  of  her 
nephew;  there  was  enough  in  Tyne's  past  to  make  him 
still  seem  a  doubtful  person  in  many  eyes.  He  had  been 
born  rich  and  clever,  but,  with  no  inherited  business  con- 
nection (the  fortune  came  through  his  father's  luck  in 
selling  land  that  had  hitherto  impoverished  the  family), 
and  no  special  fancy  for  any  pursuit;  he  was  a  young 
man  of  leisure, — and  he  used  his  leisure  badly,  con- 
tradicting a  good  education  and  a  sensitive  temperament. 

"It  is  a  hard  thing  for  me,"  Grace's  father  once  said 
to  a  friend,  "  to  see  Mont  live  as  he  does.  He  might  be 
anything  he  chose;  he  acknowledges  he  ought  to  do 
better,  and  would  like  to, — and  yet — 'deteriora  sequar/'" 

"  ' Deteriora, '  very  certainly,"  the  friend  answered. 

"And  yet  a  gentleman  in  spite  of  himself,"  Delahay 
concluded. 

Before  the  Rebellion,  a  young  man  of  Tyne's  tastes, 
both  good  and  bad,  was  likely  to  spend  more  time  in 
Europe  than  in  America.  In  his  case,  his  flying  visits 
abroad  ended  in  his  becoming  apparently  settled  there, 
and  for  a  reason  which  called  forth  strong  protests  from 


58  YESTEKD.4Y. 

Delahay,  when  he  came  to  know  it  positively  enough. 
"For  your  country's  sake  if  not  for  your  own,"  he 
wrote,  on  the  news  of  Fort  Sumter, — the  last  time  he 
ever  put  pen  to  paper, — "break  off  this  disgraceful 
affair  now,  and  come  home  to  an  honorable  service. 
You  are  doubly  wrong  if  you  stay."  The  letter  touched 
Tyne;  but  he  lingered  on  in  Europe,  and  it  was  not 
his  own  hand  that  loosed  his  bonds  at  last  It  had 
long  been  settled  that  the  Countess — a  very  real  Coun- 
tess she  was,  an  Austrian  beauty — would  marry  again 
whenever  the  Count  died.  So  she  did;  but  her  second 
husband  was  not  her  American  lover;  he  was  discarded 
for  one  of  her  own  countrymen,  a  handsome  officer 
who  had  not  found  out  how  many  years  she  was  his 
senior. 

Tyne  went  home  with  hopes  of  losing  his  life  in  the 
war,  but  did  not  succeed.  He  distrusted  every  one  at 
first,  except  only  Grace  and  her  mother;  but  Harry 
Sundon  won  him  in  spite  of  himself,  and  the  two  men 
had  finally  become  even  confidential  friends.  It  was 
on  Harry's  account  that  Tyne  had  joined  in  the  plan 
of  taking  the  house  on  Long  Island,  which  had  been 
got  up  by  Hawk  and  Goring,  men  who  did  not  please 
him  at  all,  but  whom  Harry  declared  "good  enough 
company  for  vacation."  Tyne  had  no  strong  interests 
of  his  own  any  more;  he  felt  himself  like  a  shadow 


YESTERDAY.  59 

among  other  people's  realities,  a  ghost  in  the  land  of 
the  living;  he  could  not  recover  that  existence  which 
he  had  after  all  destroyed  with  his  own  hands;  but  what 
his  friends  thought  and  did  was  of  vital  importance  to 
him. 

As  for  the  other  sharers  in  the  summer's  enterprise, 
Hawk,  though  in  flourishing  business,  was  by  no 
means  always  able  to  amuse  himself  as  he  pleased 
without  help;  Goring  "liked  any  jolly  crowd;"  and 
Corbin  was  flattered  by  being  allowed  to  accompany 
the  older  men,  knew  he  would  have  chances  of  young- 
er mates  when  he  fancied,  and  besides  wanted  to  see  a 
little  more  of  Grace  Delahay. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

met  Felix  Belden  a  few  times  more  before  he 
^J  went  away;  but  in  the  company  of  his  family,  of 
Mrs.  Bishop,  of  neighbors,  expressmen,  people  coming 
in  on  various  errands  of  business  or  good-feeling.  Before 
these  witnesses  neither  of  the  silent  lovers  allowed  them- 
selves any  expression  of  what  was  tormenting  them.  Their 
very  farewell  was  a  cool  one,  since  neither  dared  to  show 
the  warmth  they  felt;  for  fear  of  too  much,  they  made 
each  other  miserable  with  too  little. 

So  that  chapter  was  ended,  Grace  thought;  to  be  sure, 
she  should  hear  from  Florence,  but  letters  are  only  life 
at  second-hand.  Her  business  was  with  her  own  future 
now.  She  advertised  in  a  paper  or  two,  put  her  name 
and  address  on  the  books  of  a  teacher's  agency,  and 
waited  for  her  chance;  a  little  anxious  under  the  insis- 
tences of  both  Tyne  and  Mrs.  Bishop,  that  she  should 
not  take  whatever  offered,  as  she  inclined  to  do,  but 
choose  the  best,  even  if  she  delayed  in  making  her  start. 

Mrs.  Bishop  meanwhile  had  secured  her  tenant,  Mrs. 


YESTERDAY.  6 1 

Waldron,  once  Mrs.  Pelham,  a  rich  widow,  who  had  sur- 
prised everybody  by  marrying  a  very  insignificant  little 
clergyman,  half-a-dozen  years  younger  and  half  a  head 
shorter  than  herself.  Even  Mrs.  Bishop  could  not  resist 
a  smile  when  Tyne  said,  "Mrs.  Pelham  was  always  fond 
of  little  pet  animals,  so  no  wonder  she  should  have  picked 
up  one  more  when  she  wanted  a  special  chaplain."  Mrs. 
Waldron  and  Mrs.  Bishop  spent  a  great  deal  of  time  to- 
gether; Grace  was  glad  to  be  left  to  herself.  Mr.  Wald- 
ron made  some  attempts  to  interest  her  in  Ritualism,  but 
he  soon  grew  afraid  of  her,  and  still  more  of  her  cousin. 
Tyne  came  over  to  see  his  "  little  sister"  whenever  he  was 
at  the  Firebrace  house;  that  was  often,  for  he  was  con- 
stantly busy  there,  amusing  himself  with  making  it  more 
comfortable.  He  had  it  all  his  own  way;  the  other  men 
were  only  too  glad  to  leave  it  to  him;  and  when,  the  sum- 
mer vacation  beginning,  they  all  to^k  possession  one  fine 
evening,  the  party  paid  him  the  compliment  of  being 
pleased  with  his  arrangements. 

At  first  there  was  a  sudden  spell  of  hot  weather,  and 
they  were  quite  satisfied  to  lounge  about  their  own  quar- 
ters; then  a  rainstorm  from  the  east  made  it  dull  there, 
and  they  remembered  they  had  some  acquaintances  at 
Start's  hotel,  now  fast  filling  up.  The  beach  led  directly 
to  it,  without  a  fence  or  a  break,  passable  even  at  high 
tide;  and  that  way  soon  knew  their  footsteps  well.  Of 


62  YESTERDAY. 

course  in  weather  that  melted  your  shirt-collar  as  soon  as 
you  got  it  on,  one  didn't  care  about  seeing  people;  but 
when  the  sun  went  down  or  the  sea-breeze  came  up, 
Start's  length  of  the  beach  was  more  amusing  than  their 
own.  It  was  an  easy  place,  without  much  dressing  or 
fuss;  you  could  make  yourself  quite  at  home.  Indeed 
one  day  landlord  Start, — a  jolly  old  soul,  but  laboring 
under  occasional  fits  of  dignity, — ventured  a  complaint 
on  this  ground. 

"Mr.  Tyne,"  he  said,  taking  him  aside,  "I've  known 
you  boy  and  man,  and  I  don't  mean  any  offense,  on  my 
soul  I  don't;  but  if  you  can  keep  your  gentlemen  to  your- 
self a  bit,  I  wish  you  would  just  now,  seeing  it's  the  height 
of  the  season  beginning,  and  it  ain't  so  long  here  as  it 
might  be." 

"Why,  what's  to  pay?  I  wouldn't  have  you  put  out, 
if  I  knew;  but  I've  been  up  the  river  half  the  week,  and 
had  no  idea  they  were  running  free." 

"Well,  Mr.  Tyne,  'tain't  you,  of  course.  You're 
always  the  gentleman,  and  if  you  weren't,  you'd  keep  it 
dark  at  least  And  'tain't  Mr.  Sundon;  I  thought  he'd 
be  a  regular  one  when  he  first  came,  but  bless  you,  he's 
no  more  trouble  than  you  are.  But  night  before  last, 
Mr.  Goring,  he  came  over  to  play  billiards  with  some 
gentlemen  from  Pittsburg,  and  he'd  had  something  to 
drink  already,  and  they  all  had  some  more,  and  first 


63 

thing  you  know  they  got  into  a  row  over  their  game  and 
he  pitched  a  cue  at  the  nighest  one,  and  it  broke  a  win- 
dow and  smashe J  a  lamp,  and  most  set  the  house  afire. " 

"Oh,  that's  too  bad,  to  be  sure.  Send  us  in  your 
bill." 

"No,  Mr.  Tyne,  I  don't  want  to  be  mean  about  the 
glass,  and  I  don't  pretend  to  keep  a  temperance  house 
neither;  but  what  I  mind  is,  a  shindy  that  discredits  my 
place;  for  sure  enough,  two  families  were  off  next  day, 
and  who  knows  what  kind  of  a  story  they'll  be  telling? 
And  then  Mr.  Corbin  and  Mr.  Hawk — though  Mr.  Cor- 
bin wouldn't  be  much  mischief  if  he  was  by  himself — " 

"Well?" 

' '  I  won't  say  they  don't  tell  good  stories,  as  far  as  my 
own  taste  goes;  I  never  laughed  so  in  my  life  as  I  did  at 
some  of  them;  but  if  they  will  sit  and  talk  outside  on 
my  piazza  by  the  open  windows,  when  all  the  old  ladies 
get  together  just  inside,  they'll  make  me  trouble  with  the 
old  ladies,  Mr.  Tyne." 

"I'll  see  what  I  can  do,  Start;  Hawk's  rather  beyond 
me,  but  I  think  I  know  how  to  manage  the  other  two." 

And  Tyne  strolled  off  towards  his  aunt's. 

* 
His  visits  there  were  little  less  frequent  than  at  first; 

and  he  was  often  accompanied  by  Corbin  or  Harry. 
Corbin  had  no  idea — though  Tyne  was  in  the  secret, — 
that  this  special  privilege  of  visiting  a  charming  girl, 


64  YESTERDAY. 

whose  mourning  caused  her  to  receive  few  people,  was 
owing  only  to  his  mother's  solicitude.  Mrs.  Bishop  made 
him  welcome.  But  she  never  could  reconcile  herself  to 
Harry's  being  placed  on  the  same  footing.  Tvne  how- 
ever refused  to  interfere.  "One  need  not  be  so  formal 
in  the  country;  Grace  makes  no  objections;  my  friend 
has  as  much  need  of  good  society  as  that  boy,  and  is  bet- 
ter worth  knowing  himself." 

"They  do  seem  both  on  their  good  behavior  when 
they  are  here,"  Mrs.  Bishop  acknowledged. 

"Of  course;  they  recognize  that  Grace  is  a  lady,  or  I 
should  keep  them  away  from  her." 

"  It's  a  great  comfort  to  me  that  I  can  trust  her  with 
you  so,"  Mrs.  Bishop  further  admitted.  ''She  needs 
fresh  air,  and  I  am  not  strong  enough  to  matronize  her 
on  your  boating  parties.  But  if  all  this  should  end  in  a 
love-affair?  To  be  sure,  I  shouldn't  object  to  Charley 
Corbin,  and  I  know  she  has  too  good  taste  to  put  up 
with  your  actor  friend." 

"Reverse  the  order,"  Tyne  thought,  "and  I  might 
agree  with  you." 

As  for  Ha^vk  and  Goring,  they  had  determined  some- 
time before  that  Tyne's  relations  were  bores;  and  the 
ladies,  that  those  gentlemen  were  insufferable;  so  both 
pairs  avoided  one  another,  to  the  satisfaction  of  all 
concerned. 


CHAPTER  V. 

ONE  morning  late  in  July,  Sundon  and  Tyne  had 
planned  a  long  sail,  and  had  just  made  their  boat 
ready,  when  die  wind,  which  had  been  doubtful,  fell  al- 
together. The  sun  was  overcast,  and  the  day  not  yet 
hot;  so,  having  nothing  settled  to  do  next,  they  walked 
along  the  beach  till  they  came  to  the  roof  of  boughs  un- 
der which  the  people  from  the  hotel  spent  a  great  part  of 
their  days.  As  they  neared  it,  Corbin  carne  to  meet 
them;  he  had  been  seeing  some  friends  off. 

"There's  a  whole  crowd  of  new  people  this  morn- 
ing," he  said:  "all  the  world  and  his  wife,  not  count- 
ing the  girls —  Oh,  and  there's  a  head  of-hair  round  here 
worth  looking  at.  We  didn't  come  to  any  conclusion 
about  real  blondes  last  night;  now  I've  one  to  show  you." 

lie  led  them  to  one  side,  and  pointed  out  a  lady  who 
had  taken  off  her  hat,  and  fastened  up  her  wavy  flaxen 
hair,  still  damp  from  an  early  sea-bath,  in  a  careless 
twist.  Her  back  was  turned  to  them;  she  appeared  to 


66  YES  TEA' DAY. 

be  in  a  reverie,  neither  speaking  to  any  one  near  her  nor 
stirring. 

"On  my  word,"  said  Harry,  drawing  off  that  she 
should  not  hear,  ' '  that's  worth  calling  us  for.  So  fine, 
so  light,  so  much  of  it !  " 

"Two  shades  too  near  the  ash,  and  maybe  not  all 
real,"  said  Tyne;  "but  it's  pretty." 

"Oh,  it's  all  her  own, "  said  Corbin;  "the  first  I  saw 
of  it  she  took  her  hat  off,  and  it  all  tumbled  down  in 
a  regular  cascade,  and  she  just  twirled  it  up  this  minute." 

"Why  weren't  we  here  to  see!"  said  Harry. 

"But  is  she  pretty  herself?"  said  Tyne. 

' '  Of  course,  with  such  hair  and  such  shoulders. " 

"You're  too  easy  to  please  this  morning,  Harry;  you 
may  be  disappointed  yet.  I  only  see  such  a  figure  as 
any  other  tolerably  made  young  woman's,  such  another 
white  morning  dress  with  lilac  ribbons,  such  another 
tip  of  the  newest  style  of  slipper." 

"I  won't  try  to  settle  so  nice  a  point,"  said  Corbin; 
"but  I  shouldn't  have  noticed  her  hair  so  much  if  I 
hadn't  thought  her  face  matched  it.  Come  and  speak 
to  the  Garay  girls, — you  know  them,  don't  you? — and 
then  you  can  tell." 

With  that  he  walked  round  to  the  front  of  the  plat- 
form, and  stopped  to  exchange  a  few  words  with  some 
young  ladies  there;  the  others,  while  doing  the  same, 


YK-STERDAY.  67 

had  a  chance  of  observing  the  new-comer;  the  more 
that  she  turned  to  the  lady  next  her,  with  a  hurried 
question  in  a  low  voice,  and  a  glance  their  way.  Harry 
thought, — and  was  not  mistaken, — that  she  fancied  she 
recognized  him;  after  her  companion  had  answered  her 
she  continued  to  look  towards  him, — less  shyly,  yet  not 
boldly,  and  with  a  certain  surprised  attentiveness.  He 
was  quite  used  to  such  a  thing,  and  never  disliked  it; 
but  this  time  it  was  really  pleasant:  she  was  so  pretty 
a  creature,  with  her  great  blue  clear  eyes,  her  little 
straight  nose,  her  rosebud  mouth  and  dimpled  chin. 

Just  then  a  large  black-haired  florid  man,  whom  most 
people  would  have  called  handsome, — in  Goring's  style, 
but  for  a  respectable  air  that  gentleman  was  not  likely 
to  acquire, — came  up  from  behind  and  touched  the 
blonde  lady  on  the  shoulder,  saying  impatiently,  "Are 
you  never  coming,  Thyra?  You  haven't  changed  your 
mind  again,  eh  ?  " 

She  jumped  up  with  a  provoked  little  look,  gave  him 
a  novel  and  a  parasol  to  carry,  and  they  walked  away. 

' '  Who  is  she  ?  "  Harry  asked  of  the  eldest  Miss  Garay, 
a  lady  who  he  felt  was  considering  him  as  curiously  r.s 
the  stranger  had,  but  from  whom  such  notice  seemed 
less  of  a  compliment. 

"A  Mrs.  Lang  from  somewhere  in  the  West,  I  be- 
iieve,"  was  the  answer. 


68  YESTERDAY. 

"That's  her  husband,   I  suppose." 

"Yes.  I  should  think  he  was  rather  a  common  sort 
of  man."  Miss  Garay  was  particular,  and  not  at  all 
sure  that  she  was  obliged  to  Corbin  for  presenting  Harry. 

"He  doesn't  seem  the  kind  that  you  would  be  accus- 
tomed to  meet,"  answered  Harry,  and  rose  at  once  in 
Miss  Garay's  esteem. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  our  new  beauty?"  said 
Corbin,  when,  the  sun  coming  out  bright,  the  Miss 
Garays  returned  to  the  hotel  and  the  men  to  their  own 
quarters.  "  I  thought  those  girls  would  never  let  us  go, 
to  give  me  the  chance  to  ask  you." 

"Such  a  valuable  piece  of  information  !  "  said  Harry, 
laughing. 

"Charley,  you're  too  cool  a  hand  for  your  time  of 
life,"  said  Tyne.  "First  you  walk  us  all  round  a  lady 
you  don't  know,  as  if  she  were  a  Venus  on  a  pedestal 
in  a  gallery.  Then  when  you  meet  ladies  you've  seen 
before,  and  they  are  quite  as  attentive  to  you  as  worth 
while,  you  are  bored  at  the  notice  they  have  the  kind- 
ness to  take  of  you. " 

"Well,  yes,  they  are  nice  girls,  easy  to  get  on  with, 
and  all  that." 

"I  should  think  so;  they  couldn't  do  more,  short  of 
making  downright  love  to  you.  How  lazy  you  young 
fellows  are!  you  don't  play  your  part  at  all." 


YESTERDAY.  69 

' '  Oh,  I'm  not  so  clever  as  you  two,  and  besides  every- 
body expects  the  girls  to  do  the  polite  nowadays,  even 
the  girls  themselves,  Hawk  says." 

"Oh  confound  Hawk  !  I'd  rather  be  original,"  said 
Tyne. 

"But  now,  Sundon,"  Corbin  went  on,  "don't  you 
think  the  new  one's  a  pretty  woman  ? " 

"Don't  I,  though?     I  hope  she  means  to  stay." 

"What  for?"  asked  Tyne. 

"Why,  can't  you  see  what  a  beauty  she  is?  you,  with 
your  first-class  eyes  ?  Are  you  going  to  put  her  in  your 
black  book  on  sight?  Don't  you  now." 

Harry  was  always  teasing  Tyne  about  these  sudden  and 
unexpected  dislikes  which  his  friend  sometimes  took  to 
strangers;  fancies  doubly  curious  in  that  the  people  in 
question  often  turned  out  to  justify  them. 

' '  To  begin  with,  she  has  a  baby-face  that  promises  no 
conversation.  One  can't  only  sit  and  look  at  a  woman 
all  day.  Then  she  studied  us  rather  too  openly,  yet  she 
affected  not  to  be  doing  it.  And  her  dress  was  too 
much  in  the  fashion,  and — well,  if  she  is  a  beauty,  she  is 
a  bourgeoise  one.  She  never  saw  a  pair  of  snuffers  or  a 
bellows  in  her  life;  all  gas  and  furnace-registers  in  her 
house-keeping;  I  know  the  species." 

"Ah  bah  !  You're  growling  because  we  lost  our  sail. 
Your  lordship  ought  to  remember  there  are  no  bourgeoises 


70  YKSTF.KD.4}'. 

in  this  country;  anJ  if  there  were  either,  daddyism  is  just 
bosh  in  such  a  case  as  this.  " 

"There  are  plenty  of  under-bred  and  ill-bred  women, 
Harry;  and  she  is  one  or  the  other.  I'm  sure  of  it  from 
that  husband  of  hers.  A  fine-grained  woman,  either  sim- 
ple or  thoroughly-finished,  would  never  put  up  with 
him. " 

"He  looks  as  if  he  might  bite  if  you  took  away  his 
dinner;  still  I  expect  he's  a  good  dog  enough.  But  I 
mean  to  see  more  of  her. " 

"Easy  enough,  I  should  think;  but  if  I  were  you,  I'd 
leave  her  to  Hawk.  He's  likely  to  find  her  out. " 

"Poor  thing!  I  wouldn't  for  the  world.  Besides, 
Dan  is  going  into  training  for  another  try  at  the 
heiress." 

"Then  she's  the  one  to  be  sorry  for. " 

"By  the  way,  this  Mrs.  Lang  has  a  good  deal  of 
color,"  put  in  Corbin;  "do  you  think  it's  paint?" 

"No,  only  sunburn;  I  know  the  difference  without  an 
eyeglass;  but  the  chances  are  that  in  another  couple  of 
days  she'll  be  quite  too  red  to  please  you,  or  else  go 
about  done  up  in  so  thick  a  veil  that  you  can  t  tell  her 
lYuin  our  cook — "  an  old  colored  woman  Tyne  had  se- 
cured in  the  beginning  of  the  season,  of  much  special 
talent,  but  grotesque  in  her  ugliness.  "  Prepare  yourself, 
Harry. " 


YXSTEKDAY.  71 

"Oh,  I  never  look  ahead;  that's  the  one  piece  of 
Scripture  advice  I  follow.  Who  has  any  matches?  ' 

That  afternoon,  Tyne  went  over  to  see  Grace,  without 
either  of  his  friends.  She  was  sitting  on  the  veranda  at 
the  back  of  the  house,  the  shadier  side  at  that  time  of 
day;  but  not  alone,  as  he  often  found  her;  Mrs.  Lang  was 
there,  just  rising  to  take  leave,  with  tears  in  her  pretty 
eyes,  and  promising  in  affectionate  tones  to  "come  often, 
for  of  course  you  won't  want  to  come  to  the  hotel  now. 
such  a  crowd,  and  you  in  mourning."  She  delayed  a 
while  after  Tyne's  appearance;  he  had  to  be  presented, 
and  took  the  opportunity  of  studying  her  afresh.  As 
soon  as  she  was  fairly  gone,  he  exclaimed,  "Grace,  where 
did  you  pick  her  up  ?  She  seems  rather  bad  style.  " 

"  You  must  not  be  hard  on  her,"  said  Grace,  smiling. 
' '  She  is  too  pretty  for  that,  and  she  has  not  had  so  many 
chances  of  seeing  the  world  as  some  of  us." 

"Tell  me  about  her." 

Grace  gave  him  a  short  history,  which  may  be  a  little 
expanded  here. 

Mrs.  Lang's  father  had  been  a  certain  Christian  Brink, 
the  vagabond  son  of  a  respectable  Norwegian  merchant, 
who  after  trying  in  vain  to  make  something  of  a  young 
man  with  no  talent  for  business  and  a  too  great  appetit? 
for  pleasure,  packed  him  off  in  despair  to  the  United 
States.  Young  Brink  amused  himself  in  New  York  as 


72  YESTERDAY. 

long  as  his  funds  lasted;  then  he  made  a  fresh  start 
by  marrying  a  young  girl  with  plenty  of  money,  the 
chance  acquaintance  of  a  watering-place, — a  simple,  hum- 
drum, but  rather  pretty  creature,  with  none  of  the  tastes 
of  her  suddenly-reached  fortune.  Her  father,  after  years 
of  struggle  on  a  Vermont  farm,  had  tried  California,  with 
such  luck  as  rarely  falls  to  miners;  and  Hannah  was  his 
only  heir.  Brink  spent  all  her  money,  made  her  wretched 
for  some  years,  then  died.  The  widow,  with  her  daugh- 
ter Thyra  to  bring  up  and  little  or  nothing  to  do  it  on, 
drifted  about  till  at  last  she  settled  in  Milwaukee. 

Thyra 's  first  recollections  were  of  pinching  poverty,  ag- 
gravated by  her  mother's  dreary  way  of  taking  the  world. 
Mrs.  Brink  had  found  her  consolation  in  a  bitter  asceti- 
cism. Every  pleasure  was  a  sin  in  her  jaundiced  eyes. 
This  reaction  against  her  husband's  rowdy  ways  of  delight- 
ing himself  was  not  strange  for  her;  but  it  weighed  heav- 
ily on  a  growing  girl  who  had  inherited  a  disposition  to 
gayety,  to  be  not  only  shut  out  by  narrow  means  from 
great  enjoyments,  but  by  a  narrow  creed  from  little  ones. 
Her  mother  saw  her  nature  without  sympathy;  dreading 
it  as  something  "sinful,"  she  was  doubly  hard  with  her. 
At  eighteen,  Thyra  had  never  learned  to  dance,  had  read 
only  a  very  few  novels  on  the  sly  (she  was  not  skillful  in 
deception,  and  her  attempts  that  way  were  sure  to  end  in 
her  being  found  out  and  punished),  and  had  seen  no 


YESTERDA  Y.  73 

public  performance  more  exciting  than  the  tableaux  at  a 
church  fair,  in  which  she  was  not  allowed  to  take  a  part, 
though  she  had  begged  again  and  again;  but  even  the 
minister's  wife  could  not  persuade  Mrs.  Brink. 

Notwithstanding,  when  on  Thyra's  eighteenth  birthday 
one  of  these  rather  dreary  entertainments  took  place,  and 
she  went  to  it  in  an  old  black  dress  which  did  not  fit,  a 
dashing  young  man  with  his  arm  in  a  sling, — Captain 
Jack  Lang,  wounded  at  Fort  Donelson,  and  taking 
part  of  his  sick-leave  for  a  visit  to  his  uncle,  the  rich  man 
of  the  congregation, — was  presented  to  her,  and  the 
whole  course  of  her  life  was  changed. 

Captain  Lang  had  yielded  rather  unwillingly  to  his 
aunt's  proposal  that  he  should  escort  her  that  evening; 
but  the  meeting  with  Thyra  more  than  repaid  him,  he 
thought;  such  a  lovely  creature,  in  spite  of  her  unprom- 
ising surroundings!  He  kept  up  the  acquaintance  thus 
begun,  and  pushed  it  to  the  point  of  an  offer,  which  was 
not  made  in  vain.  Having  the  prospect  of  a  good  busi- 
ness position  if  he  should  leave  the  army,  and  his  wound 
bidding  fair  to  keep  him  from  active  service  for  a  long 
time,  he  resigned  his  commission,  and  contenting  himself 
with  subscribing  to  the  Sanitary  Commission  and  drilling 
a  Home  Guard,  went  into  business  one  day  and  married 
Thyra  Brink  the  next.  This  last  step  met  with  some  op- 
position on  the  part  of  his  uncle  and  aunt;  but  Lang  was 


74  YESTEKD.1Y. 

not  dependent  on  them,  and  was  neither  to  be  checked  nor 
crossed.  His  former  officers  used  to  say  that  this  dispo- 
sition was  the  real  cause  of  his  leaving  the  army;  he  had 
courage  and  dash  enough,  but  could  not  bear  to  be  under 
a  superior. 

Lang  was  very  fond  of  his  pretty  wife;  as  for  Thyra, 
she  was  transported,  beside  herself.  After  years  of  pov- 
erty and  Sunday-schools,  what  a  deliverance,  what  a 
new  world !  To  be  head  of  your  own  house,  with 
money  to  spend,  and  somebody  actually  proud  of  hav- 
ing you  spend  it;  somebody  who  wanted  you  always  to 
be  well-dressed,  and  let  you  read  all  the  new  novels,  and 
learn  to  waltz;  who  liked  to  go  to  the  theater  with  you, 
and  to  take  you  driving  with  such  a  nice  horse;  it  was 
almost  too  much.  To  be  sure,  Jack  had  h!s  whims,  like 
all  men,  and  once  he  got  something  into  his  head,  there 
was  no  turning  him  off  it;  but  after  all  he  was  so  kind ! 
So  too  said  Mrs.  Brink;  shocked  beyond  measure  at  first 
by  her  daughter's  suddenly-developed  worldliness,  she 
submitted  to  it  in  consideration  of  her  son-in-law's  treat- 
ment of  herself;  her  father  had  merely  given  her  money, 
and  her  husband  had  taken  it  from  her;  but  this  man 
was  really  thoughtful  of  her.  In  fact,  Ling  liked  to 
make  people  happy;  only,  it  must  be  in  his  own  way, 
which  he  was  so  sure  was  the  best  that  he  would  toler- 
ate no  other. 


YESTERDAY.  75 

Mrs.  Brink  remained  in  Milwaukee,  among  her  church 
friends.  Thyra  and  her  husband  went  first  to  Chicago; 
then,  as  Lang's  business  enlarged,  they  had  removed 
to  New  York,  his  native  town,  where  he  had  always 
wished  to  return,  though  his  parents'  death  had  broken 
up  his  home  there  in  his  boyhood.  The  first  cloud  in 
Thyra's  sky  had  risen  in  consequence  of  these  changes 
of  dwelling-place;  she  had  expected  that  her  marriage 
would  bring  her  at  once  into  ' '  the  best  society, "  and 
could  not  see  why  there  were  still  regions  beyond  her, 
wide  as  she  had  made  her  circle.  It  was  partly  with 
tho  end  of  reaching  them  that  she  was  renewing  her 
acquaintance  with  Grace;  partly  also  from  a  genuine 
feeling  of  liking  and  gratitude.  Three  years  before, 
Grace  and  her  mother  had  gone  to  spend  their  vaca- 
tion in  a  quiet  nook  of  the  Catskills;  and  it  chanced 
that  Thyra,  advised  by  her  doctor  to  take  her  two  chil- 
t'.rai  into  mountain  air  for  the  summer,  chose  the  same 
farm  boarding-house.  Mrs.  Brink  was  to  have  joined  her, 
but  failed  to  do  so  for  some  weeks.  The  younger  child 
having  one  of  those  sudden  touches  of  illness  to  which 
children  are  liable,  Mrs.  Delahay  gave  advice  and  help 
to  th  3  alarmed,  bewildered  mother;  while,  as  this  state 
of  things  lasted  several  days,  and  Thyra  (who  always 
had  a  good  deal  of  trouble  with  her  servants)  was  al- 
ready left  without  a  nurse,  the  girl  having  departed  just 


76  YESTERDAY. 

before,  Grace  undertook  the  charge  of  the  elder  (an  at- 
tractive though  rather  spoilt  little  thing),  till  the  vacancy 
could  be  rilled. 

Happening  now  to  hear  that  Grace  was  in  her  neigh- 
borhood, Thyra  had  sought  her  out,  with  an  added  im- 
pulse of  sympathy  from  their  both  having  a  sorrow  to 
bear.  If  Grace  was  wearing  black  for  her  mother,  Thyra's 
lilac  ribbons  were  the  last  of  her  mourning  for  the  chil- 
dren, who  had  both  died  together  of  scarlet  fever.  "Now 
if  they  only  had  lived,"  the  mother  had  been  saying  just 
before  Tyne's  entrance,  "they  would  have  been  just  old 
enough  for  you  to  begin  to  teach  them,  and  then  I  could 
really  have  done  something  for  you  right  off."  It  was 
this  speech  that  had  brought  the  tears  to  the  speaker's 
eyes. 

"Kindly  meant,  Grace,  to  be  sure,"  said  Tyne,  when 
he  heard  of  it,  "but  you  may  do  better  yet,  I  hope." 

"Now  don't  be  'coming  the  F.  F.  over  people,'  as 
you  used  to  say,"  Grace  answered. 

"I  don't  mean  that,  I  promise  you.  I  only  don't 
want  you  to  go  from  one  unsympathetic  house  to  an- 
other. Mere  kindness  isn't  good  enough  for  you. " 

' '  You  fanciful  cousin  !  " 


CHAPTER    VI. 

AS  the  summer  went  on,  it  turned  out  to  be  not  the 
blazing  one  that  some  people  had  prophesied,  but 
moderate  in  heat,  and  very  pleasant  when  the  occasional 
sea-breezes  in  July  became,  with  the  opening  of  August, 
the  regular  accompaniment  of  every  afternoon.  Tyne's 
party  was  constantly  on  the  water.  It  had  lessened  in 
number.  Hawk  had  gone  to  Newport,  in  hopes  to  pre- 
vail personally  on  Emma  Mi  not  to  reconsider  her  deci- 
sion, since  letters  had  had  no  effect  on  her.  Goring  was 
shooting  and  fishing  in  the  Maine  woods,  successful  to 
the  point  of  twice  writing  a  letter  of  twenty  words,  like  a 
double  telegram,  one  to  Tyne  and  one  to  Harry,  begging 
them  to  join  him.  But  they  and  Corbin  staid  behind, 
and  devoted  themselves  to  boating.  Not  after  the  regular 
oarsman  fashion,  though.  Even  Corbin  was  hardly  ever 
in  his  shell;  he  said  "the  water  was  too  lumpy,"  and  one 
may  believe  him;  but  he  certainly  preferred  a  boat  that 
would  hold  Grace  Delahay;  and  Tyne  and  Harry  were 
willing  enough  to  help  him  row  or  sail  it 


78  YESTERDAY. 

Grace  was  not  their  only  passenger.  With  Tyne  of  the 
party,  she  needed  no  matron;  but  she  had  one  in  Thyra 
Lang,  who  was  always  delighted  to  go  on  such  trips,  and 
was  often  invited.  She  had  fallen  into  a  way  of  running 
over  continually  to  see  Grace;  though  they  were  too  dif- 
ferent ever  to  be  real  friends,  there  was  a  sort  of  comrade- 
ship between  them,  to  which  even  Tyne  did  not  say  nay. 
Mrs.  Bishop  did  not  approve  it,  but  she  too  let  it  go;  she 
regarded  Thyra  as  a  foolish  young  woman  of  inferior  so- 
cial position,  over  whom  however  Grace  might  have  a 
good  influence.  As  for  trying  to  govern  Grace,  that  was 
impossible;  fortunately  also  it  was  unnecessary. 

Lang  sometimes  went  on  these  expeditions,  but  oftener 
not;  not  for  Mrs.  Bishop's  reason,  for  he  was  a  good  sailor, 
but  because,  though  everybody  was  of  course  civil  to  him, 
he  somehow  found  himself  one  too  many.  He  explained 
this  for  the  present  by  a  theory  that  the  three  other  men 
were  all  Grace's  admirers,  and  that  a  disinterested  fourth 
put  them  out.  This  he  discussed  with  his  wife,  wonder- 
ing which  would  win,  and  inclining  to  "bet  on  the 
youngest."  To  his  surprise,  Thyra  answered,  "What, 
with  Mr.  Sundon  about  ? " 

"Oh,  he's  only  an  actor;  she'd  never  look  at  him," 
said  Lang,  disdainfully;  he  also  had  prejudices.  Thyra 
probably  did  not  share  them;  for  she  failed  to  quote  this 
speech  when  she  repeated  their  conversation  to  Grace, — 


Y.~STEKDAY.  79 

in  a  modified  form,  to  be  sure,  but  still  with  distinct- 
ness enough  to  cause  that  lady  some  annoyance,  though 
she  did  not  show  it  and  did  not  alter  her  manner  towards 
any  of  her  companions  in  consequence.  To  be  sure,  ex- 
cept with  Tyne,  she  was  never  unreserved. 

Grace's  social  life  was  indeed  a  great  effort  to  her  at  this 
time;  she  had  to  strive  hard  to  enter  into  what  went  on 
about  her;  it  seemed  very  unreal.  This  self,  whether 
listening  to  the  lively  talk  of  the  rest  of  the  party, 
or  joining  in  it,  was  but  a  reflection  in  the  glass,  a 
vain  image  of  that  which  had  gone- back  into  the  past  with 
the  beloved  dead,  or  forward  into  the  future  with  the 
h;>I>elessly-cherished  living  friend.  She  succeeded,  how- 
ever, in  hiding  these  moods  from  every  one  but  Tyne;  he 
worried  over  them,  but  feared  to  wound  her  by  seeking 
for  the  clew  to  their  meaning.  The  other  people  only 
thought  she  showed  the  occasional  depression  natural  in 
her  circumstances,  but  that  on  the  whole  she  "bore  up 
wonderfully;''  so  Thyra  said. 

Corbin  and  Harry,  however,  were  alike  struck  with 
her  invariable  mental  attitude  towards  themselves.  It 
did  not  seem  to  be  embarrassment  or  dislike,  but  they 
had  never  met  a  woman  before  who  showed  such  con- 
stant though  unobtrusive  caution  and  care  in  what  she 
said  and  did  in  their  presence.  They  had  been  con- 
scious of  this  from  the  beginning,  but  thought  it  was 


So  YESTEKD.4Y. 

shyness,  and  would  wear  off.  They  were  mistaken;  the 
barrier  remained,  invisible,  but  strong.  So  far  they  might 
come,  and  it  was  pleasant  to  come;  up  to  a  certain  point 
she  was  cordial;  but  never  one  step  beyond.  Corbin, 
who  grew  steadily  more  interested  in  her,  was  greatly 
disturbed  by  the  situation,  and  longed  to  put  an  end 
to  it;  but  he  did  not  quite  dare  to  try.  Sometimes  he 
thought  she  suspected  his  secret,  and  wished  to  discour- 
age him  gently;  again  he  was  sure  that  she  was  quite 
unconscious.  Now  he  positively  believed  she  preferred 
either  Harry  or  Tyne, .  both  of  whom  he  admired  him- 
self, and  against  either  of  whom  he  would  have  thought 
it  hopeless  to  struggle;  now  he  was  confident  he  had 
nothing  to  fear  from  them.  Meanwhile,  he  postponed 
any  decisive  action;  the  end  of  the  summer  would  be 
time  enough;  for  if  she  should  refuse  him,  how  could 
things  go  on  in  the  present  fashion,  one  not  to  be 
lightly  given  up,  bitter-sweet  as  it  was? 

As  for  Harry,  his  feelings  were  a  puzzle  to  himself. 
What  was  there  about  Grace  to  tease  a  man  so  ?  He 
could  not  generalize  concerning  her,  could  not  rank 
her  under  any  of  the  common  categories  into  which 
he  divided  women;  it  would  have  been  a  real  relief  to 
him,  but  she  somehow  made  it  impossible.  Torment 
him  she  certainly  did,  though  he  was  not  sure  whether 
it  was  intentional  on  her  part;  he  was  only  certain  of 


YESTERDAY.  8 1 

the  effect.  At  first  he  had  followed  Tyne's  lead,  and 
endeavored  to  place  himself  in  his  best  light  before  her; 
but  after  a  while — a  change,  if  he  had  noted  it,  coin- 
cident with  Thyra's  coming, — some  perverse  spirit  pos- 
sessed him  in  her  presence,  impelling  him  to  say  sharp 
and  unpleasant  things,  to  appear  defiant  and  worthless. 
What  was  it?  She  was  always  the  same;  rarely  gay, 
sometimes  a  little  sad,  never  open  or  frank,  but  gentle 
and  gracious;  not  prim,  or  narrow,  or  arrogant,  or  pos- 
itively cold.  Still  he  felt  himself  repelled  by  her;  and 
before  long  he  began  in  proportion  to  be  drawn  to 
Mrs.  Lang. 

Thyra's  manner  was  more  than  the»  opposite  of  Grace's. 
Tyne  was  disposed  to  be  severe  on  it.  "A  baby  who 
blurts  out  whatever  comes  into  her  head !  what  business 
has  she  to  be  playing  the  woman  ? "  She  could  indeed 
keep  nothing  to  herself;  and  her  likings  and  dislikings, 
her  tastes  and  judgments,  were  no  more  reasonable  than 
a  child's.  Fortunately  she  was  easily  pleased,  or  she 
would  have  made  enemies  everywhere.  She  received 
Harry  with  a  frank  admiration  such  as  was  not  new 
to  him;  at  another  time  he  might  have  treated  it  a  lit- 
tle disdainfully;  but  now  it  was  very  agreeable;  in  con- 
trast to  Grace's  coolness  (which  he  began  to  accuse  of 
hiding  a  contempt  he  thought  uncalled-for),  this  pretty 
deference  was  not  too  much.  If  such  a  charming 


Sz  YESTERDAY. 

woman  chose  to  be  so  friendly,  why  should  that  girl 
be  so  distant?  Grace  surely  rated  herself  too  high. 
Even  her  looks  were  nothing  extraordinary.  To  be 
sure,  they  had  improved  with  the  season;  she  was  no 
longer  the  convalescent;  her  hair  had  grown  and  her 
color  come  back;  in  those  black-and-white  cambrics 
and  musljns  she  wore  (Harry  always  noticed  women's 
dress)  she  seemed  quite  exquisite  sometimes,  with  her 
graceful  movements,  her  ladylike  air,  and  that  pretty 
gradual  turn  of  the  head  when  you  spoke  to  her  and 
she  had  been  looking  another  way.  But  what  was 
that  to  Thyra's  blonde  radiance?  She  too  grew  more 
handsome  as  the  summer  went  on.  Tyne's  forebod- 
ings about  her  complexion  had  proved  all  wrong;  and 
when  she  did  wear  a  veil,  it  was  thin  white  grenadine, 
such  as  was  in  favor  that  season, — very  hard  for  the 
wearer  to  see  through,  but  very  becoming  in  the  eyes 
of  whoever  saw  her.  In  spite  of  the  defects  of  her 
face,  Th}Ta  was  a  beauty,  Harry  declared,  and  in  spite 
of  the  defects  of  her  character,  a  charming  woman.  If 
she  did  say  foolish  things  sometimes,  still  Tyne  was 
wrong  in  thinking  her  altogether  silly.  Very  likely  too 
he  had  changed  his  mind  about  that;  he  did  not  dis- 
praise her  now  as  he  had  at  first  Nor  had  Harry  found 
Thyra  attractive  because  Tyne  did  not  like  her;  he  was 
not  such  a  fool,  he  told  himself,  as  to  fancy  people  for 


YESTERDA  Y.  83 

contrariness:  even  such  a  soft  young  fellow  as  Corbin, 
who  took  his  color  from  whoever  he  was  with,  and 
behaved  ill  or  well,  according  to  the  company  he  kept, 
knew  better.  It  was  a  pity  though,  if  that  boy  were 
falling  in  love  with  Grace;  he  would  certainly  be  dis- 
appointed. Love  didn't  pay,  anyhow.  Easy  mutual 
admiration  was  much  pleasanter,  and  quite  enough  for 
a  summer  holiday. 

So  they  all  drifted  on  together;  when  unexpectedly  a 
day  came  after  which  it  was  no  longer  possible  for  them 
not  to  understand  themselves. 

It  was  the  first  afternoon  of  September.  Lang  had 
gone  to  town  on  business,  and  was  not  expected  to  re- 
turn till  late;  Thyra  was  with  Grace  on  Mrs.  Bishop's 
veranda.  The  lady  of  the  house,  as  usual,  had  gone  to 
visit  her  friend  Mrs.  Waldron;  instead  of  her,  Tyne  helped 
to  represent  the  family.  Harry  had  come  with  him; 
Corbin  had  been  there  also,  but  had  gone  down  to  the 
beach  again,  to  make  sure  that  the  hitherto  doubtful 
wind  would  grow  steady  enough  for  sailing. 

Grace  had  driven  her  aunt  a  long  round  that  morning, 
jogging  behind  the  old  horse  on  tiresome  enough  er- 
rands; then  by  way  of  compensation  had  taken  a  home- 
ward road  through  the  marshes,  where  in  spite  of  threat- 
ened wet  feet  and  scratched  hands, — as  if  one  had  not 
driving  gloves  and  a  change  of  shoes, — she  had  gathered 


84  YESTERDAY. 

a  sheaf  of  the  rich  blooms  of  late  summer:  marsh- 
mallows,  to  other  wild-flowers  what  a  Veronese  is  to  othei 
pictures,  and  pyramid-girandoles  of  Turkscap  lilies,  fitly 
called  "superb"  by  the  botanists.  She  had  set  half-a- 
dozen  stems  of  these  last, — each  with  its  triple  tiara  of 
blossoms  whose  backward-curling  petals  of  orange  shad- 
ing from  red  to  yellow  were  flecked  with  dark  velvety 
spots, — in  a  tall  blue-and-white  Japanese  jar,  one  of  the 
old  treasures  of  the  house.  Now  she  brought  them  out 
of  the  darkened  parlor  for  Thyra  to  see.  ' '  What  a  pic- 
ture you  make  !  "  said  Tyne,  as  she  set  them  on  a  little 
table.  But  Harry  remarked, 

"Why,  Miss  Delahay,  that  is  not  the  bouquet  one  ex- 
pects from  you." 

"Why  not?"  said  she,   smiling. 

"All  those  gay-colored,  spotted,  speckled  things.  I 
thought  young  ladies  disapproved  of  spotted  flowers  on 
principle;  which  of  the  authorities  says  so,  Mont?  You 
know  you  do  my  serious  reading  for  me." 

"Oh,  it's,  in  Hawthorne,"  said  Tyne;  "one  of  those 
tiresome  little  bits  of  symbolism  he  will  tease  one  with 
sometimes." 

"And  which  mean  so  much  for  the  ladies.  Don't  they, 
Miss  Delahay?" 

' '  Not  for  me.  I  confess  I  do  not  care  for  symbols,  and 
I  love  flowers  for  their  own  sakes." 


YESTERDAY.  85 

"But  don't  you  like  white  flowers  best?"  said  Thyra. 
' '  Everybody  does. " 

"I  can't  say  I  do;  I  love  color  too  well.  But  you 
shall  have  some  to  take  home  with  you;  there  are  a  few 
white  pinks  and  some  day-lilies  still  left  in  the  garden." 

"Thank  you.  But  how  can  you  not  like  white  flowers 
best?  I  never  heard  of  such  an  idea;  but  there  are  so 
many  new  ideas  nowadays." 

"Oh,  my  fancy  is  a  very  old  one;  savages  are  fond  of 
bright  colors,  and  in  that  I  am  a  primitive  person  too." 

' '  I  am  sure  we  don't  want  to  be  savages,  and  I  don't 
think  we  are,"  said  Thyra;  "but  don't  you  think  gener- 
ally old-fashioned  ideas  are  the  best?  Don't  you,  Mr. 
Tyne?"  turning  on  him,  before  Grace  could  answer. 
"I'm  sure  you  will  take  my  side,"  laughing  a  little. 

Thyra  had  the  theory  of  Tyne  which  the  hotel  had 
adopted;  that  he  had  been  "very  fast"  abroad,  but  was  a 
"safe  man"  now,  as  he  intended  to  settle  down  and 
marry  his  cousin.  So  she  was  sure  of  what  she  could  say 
to  him.  She  might  have  well  been;  for  he  looked  on  her 
as  an  imprudent  child,  with  whom  it  was  specially  shabby 
to  trifle. 

"I'm  sorry  to  contradict  you,"  he  answered,  "but  I 
can't.  What  you  call  new  ideas  are  really  most  of  them 
as  old-fashioned  as  those  savages  with  whom  we  won't  let 
Grace  class  herself." 


86  YESTERDAY. 

"Dear  me,"  said  Thyra,  "  I  don't  know  just  what  you 
mean. " 

"And  I  might  shock  you  too  much  if  I  explained. 
This  is  a  pleasant  day;  I  ought  to  talk  of  only  pleasant 
things. " 

"But,"  Thyra  went  on,  "you  know  unpleasant  things 
will  happen  in  this  world,  and — and  all  sorts  of  improper 
things;  and  then  people  always  say,  'Oh,  it  wasn't  so 
when  we  were  young;  it  is  all  these  new  ideas  about 
religion,  and — morality  and  everything.'" 

"They  are  mistaken,  I  assure  you.  Nothing  is  more 
ancient  than  what  you  call  improper." 

' '  Would  you  use  a  less  severe  word,  Mont  ? "  asked 
Harry. 

' '  Would  I  ? "  answered  Tyne,  drily. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Waldron,  that  is  your  aunt's  friend,  Mr. 
Tyne,"  said  Thyra,  "was  saying  only  Jast  week,  about — 
well,  about  that  divorce  case  that  was  in  all  the  papers, 
'  Such  things  never  happened  in  my  day. 

' '  Clergymen's  wives  feel  bound  to  make  such  speeches, 
I  believe." 

"I'm  sure  I'm  ready  to  agree  with  you,  Mrs.  Lang, " 
said  Harry;  "but  if  I  remember  right,  Mrs.  Waldron 
should  be  careful  how  she  praises  the  past;  her  mother's 
family  had  some  queer  people  in  it  Doesn't  one  of 
your  tales  of  old  New  York  belong  to  them,  Mont? 


YESTERDAY.  87 

He   knows   everybody's   family   history,    Mrs.    Lang;   he 
could  make  a  wonderful  book  of  anecdotes,  if  he  chose." 

"I  don't  care  about  getting  into  libel-suits,"  said 
Tyne. 

"But  am  I  right?" 

"Yes.     The    true   history   of  Mrs.    Waldron's    aunt,' 
Mrs.    Dingle,    might   have    happened,  in    the   sixteenth 
century. " 

"That!  oh,  it's  hardly  uncommon  enough.  As  you 
told  it  to  me,  it  was  only  a  case  of — well,  what  any 
man  may  do  now,  go  as  far  as  a  woman  lets  him;  and 
why  shouldn't  he  ?  " 

"Oh  dear,"  said  Thyra,  rather  frightened,  "I  suppose 
people  think  so,  but  it  sounds  alarming,"  and  she  looked 
at  Grace. 

Grace  flushed  a  little.  "Forewarned  is  forearmed," 
she  said,  very  quietly,  and  looking  down.  But  Harry 
felt  he  had  spoken  too  freely  for  the  time  and  place. 

"Here's  Corbin,"  he  said  turning  quickly.  "We  shall 
have  our  sail  after  all." 

' '  It  seems  like  it, "  said  Tyne,  swallowing  something 
very  different  he  had  meant  to  say.  "Better  by  and 
by,"  he  thought 

The  wind  was  favorable,  and  the  afternoon  perfect  for 
their  excursion.  Harry  devv»ted  himself  to  Thyra  when- 
ever he  was  not  wanted  to  help  in  managing  the  boat 


88  YESTE1WAY. 

She  had  forgotten  all  about  their  conversation  on  shore 
before  they  were  fairly  under  way;  she  seemed  even  more 
frankly  charming  than  usual,  and  every  look  from  .those 
great  soft  eyes  was  like  a  caress.  But  he  saw  too  that 
Grace  was  preoccupied  and  absent,  and  that  Tyne  .was 
watching  him  at  intervals  in  an  unaccustomed  way.  He 
felt  provoked  and  pleased  at  once;  the  summer  quiet  was 
turning  to  excitement  with  him.  When  they  returned, 
Corbin  having  left  the  boat-house  door  open,  Lang  had 
come  in,  and  was  waiting  for  them  at  the  top  of  the  steps; 
he  not  only  looked  rumpled  from  his  short  but  warm 
journey,  but  his  black  brows  were  drawn  into  a  heavier 
scowl  than  even  the  sun-glare  on  the  Bay  accounted  for. 
"Dear  me,"  cried  Thyra  when  she  saw  him,  "how  you 
do  want  shaving,  and  how  hot  you  are  !  You  ought 
to  have  been  with  us;  it's  delightful  on  the  water." 

"  Oh,  come  along  !  "  he  answered.  "  It's  dinner-time, 
and  your  friends  want  to  put  their  boat  up." 

Harry  was  helping  Thyra  up  the  steps,  which  were 
steep,  and  a  little  slippery,  as  the  tide  had  fallen;  but  as 
soon  as  she  reached  the  top,  Lang  caught  her  hand  and 
fairly  pulled  her  away  from  her  conductor.  The  two 
men's  eyes  met,  with  a  glance  from  either  that  each  felt 
like  a  blow;  but  nothing  was  said.  Thyra  called  back 
a  good-bye  to  the  others  in  the  boat;  Lang  touched  his 
hat  to  Grace;  then  they  hurried  away,  though  not  in  time 


YESTERDA  Y.  89 

to  escape  a  satirically-polite  bow  from  Harry,  before  he 
turned  to  give  his  hand  to  Grace.  It  was  hardly  needed, 
for  Corbin  was  with  her.  Still  he  had  her  hand  against 
his  a  minute — and  how  cold  it  felt,  after  Thyra's,  so  warm 
and  soft! 

Grace  walked  home  with  Corbin,  almost  in  silence. 
Sundon  staid  to  help  Tyne  with  the  boat. 

"Harry,"  said  Tyne  to  him,  as  soon  as  the  others 
were  out  of  hearing,  "J  need  not  quarrel  with  you  your- 
self, I'm  sure;  but  if  you  begin  to  play  Hawk,  I  shall  have 
no  patience  left  with  you,  and  I  shall  think  I  did  wrong 
to  let  you  keep  up  your  acquaintance  with  Grace;  and 
that's  hard  on  me,  for  you  and  she  are  the  only  people 
here  I  care  a  copper  for." 

"I  know  it  was  too  bad  of  me,"  Harry  admitted;  "but 
somehow  your  cousin  does  plague  me  so;  I  have  no  peace 
when  she  is  about — she  sets  me  on  edge." 

' '  She  doesn't  mean  it;  she — well !  you  ought  to  under- 
stand her,  and  you  will  one  of  these  days." 

"Oh,  I  dare  say,"  answered  Harry,  absently;  "but  I 
don't  care  much  for  your  deep  people." 

"No?" 

"A  woman,  now,  that  is  shallow  enough  to  show  she 
would  rather  have  you  near  her  than  on  the  other  side  of 
the  room,  and  if  she  don't  know  anything  but  how  to 
smile,  does  that  for  your  sake, — I  like  that." 


90  YESTERDAY. 

f '  Harry,  you're  too  confoundedly  sentimental — 

"  You  ought  to  know — " 

Here  the  conversation  was  unexpectedly  broken  in 
upon  by  Mrs.  Bishop's  boy-of-all-work  scrambling  down 
the  steps,  with  a  message  from  that  lady,  asking  her 
nephew  to  join  her  at  her  house  directly. 

"I  wonder  what's  the  matter,"  Tyne  said,  impatiently. 
"Is  the  boat  fast,  Harry?" 

"All  O.  K.     Are  you  coming- back  to  dinner?" 

"I  hope  so,"  hurrying  off.  When  he  did  return  to 
their  quarters,  he  was  plainly  out  of  humor. 

"  I'm  under  way  for  Chicago  in  half  an  hour;  a  trip 
to  the  tropics  I  shall  find  it  just  now,"  he  explained. 

"Can't  the  old  lady  go  herself?  Why  need  you  let 
her  send  you  ?  " 

"Oh,  I've  some  investments  there  myself  that  might 
as  well  be  looked  after  too,  though  they  are  not  as  im- 
portant as  hers.  Pretty  much  all  she  has  to  live  on  is 
that  property;  and  her  agent  has  chosen  this  very  time 
to  die  and  leave  everything  in  confusion.  She  may  be 
badly  swindled  if  I  don't  see  to  her  affairs  now,  and  I 
will,  no  matter  if  all  the  thermometers  in  the  northwest 
boil  over  every  day  for  a  week." 

"Well,  I'm  downright  sorry.  Come  back  as  soon 
as  you  can;  there's  never  half  so  much  fun  without 
you. " 


YESTERDAY.  91 

"Don't  let  Corbin  burn  down  the  house  while  I'm 
gone;  as  for  entertaining  Grace,  I  can  trust  him." 

' '  And  me.     We  won't  neglect  her. " 

"Now,"  thought  Tyne,  "that  sounds 'well  enough; 
shall  I  say  more,  tnough?  I'm  not  easy  about  our 
pretty  Thyra;  but  what  to  do?  Speak  to  Harry?  that 
might  set  him  on,  for  contradiction,  in  the  humor  he 
is;  besides,  I  have  really  no  right  to — I  !  To  her?  she 
is  such  a  fool.  To  Ding?  To  accuse  my  friend  to  a 
stranger,  and  a  poor  little  silly  soul  to  a  rough  fellow 
like  that  ?  He'd  probably  beat  her  and  fight  Harry,  and  a 
nice  thing  I  should  have  done.  To  Grace,  then  ?  Impos- 
sible, impossible !  I  will  wait  till  I  come  back,  at  least. " 


CHAPTER    VII. 

ON  the  day  after  Tyne's  departure,  Corbin  also  went 
off,  on  a  visit  to  some  friends  up  the  Hudson. 
The  next  day,  therefore,  Harry  found  himself  quite 
alone  in  the  house. 

The  morning  proved  a  very  long  one.  No  wind  for 
sailing;  too  hot  for  rowing,  and  even  for  bathing,  with  the 
sun  beating  down  so  on  one's  head.  He  went  over  to 
the  hotel,  but  found  nothing  to  do  there,  and  no  one  he 
cared  to  see;  most  of  his  acquaintances  had  left,  and  their 
places  were  filled  up  by  stupid  strangers.  A  chat  over  a 
cobbler  with  Start  would  have  been  something,  but  even 
Start  was  away  for  the  day.  The  Langs  were  invisible; 
Thyra  was  reported  to  have  disappeared  from  the  beach 
with  a  headache,  and  her  husband  to  be  taking  care  of 
her;  this  information  Harry  extracted  from  the  stillest  of 
the  old  ladies,  who  accompanied  it  with  a  look  that 
spoke  volumes  of  disapproval. 

He  returned  to  the  house,  and  looked  about  for  a 
novel.  There  was  a  stack  of  them  that  nearly  touched 


YESTERDAY.  93 

the  ceiling;  French  and  English,  Tyne's  selection  mainly, 
though  Hawk  had  contributed  a  few;  entertaining  things 
enough,  but  somehow  he  could  not  find  one  that  was 
new;  after  a  dozen  pages,  he  would  discover  that  he  re- 
membered it  all,  and  did  not  care  to  go  over  it  again. 
This  pursuit,  however,  kept«him  busy  till  lunch-time;  after 
which,  returning  to  it,  his  patience  was  rewarded  with  a 
couple  of  volumes  he  had  not  read.  He  went  into  the 
garden  and  settled  himself  comfortably  in  the  hammock 
between  two  cherry-trees.  There  were  no  longer  any 
cherries,  or  even  any  currants  on  the  bushes  within  reach, 
to  add  to  the  attractions  of  the  place,  but  he  had  a  cap- 
ital cigar,  and  the  rising  sea-breeze  swept  away  all  the 
mosquitoes. 

He  read  on  for  some  time;  the  book  was  not  very  bril- 
liant, but  much  better  than  nothing.  After  a  while  he 
looked  up,  and  saw  the  shadows  beginning  to  lengthen; 
by  his  watch,  it  was  after  three.  "A  good  time  to  go  out 
sailing,"  he  thought,  "and  a  good  wind.  Sailing — with 
Thyra."  (He  always  called  her.  Thyra  to  himself,  though 
"  Mrs.  Lang"  scrupulously  to  other  people.)  "  I  wonder 
if  she'd  like  to  go  now;  I  might  run  over  and  ask  her; 
think  I  will.  Perhaps  she  wouldn't  though.  I  haven't 
seen  her  to'-day,  I  declare;  and  yesterday  only  a  few  min- 
utes on  the  beach,  and  then  she  seemed  put  out  and 
not  like  herself.  She  can't  be  angry  with  me?  We 


94  YESTERDAY. 

'  parted  friends '  the  day  before.  Oh,  of  course;  it's  her 
husband.  Why  must  she  have  one  ?  He's  confoundedly 
in  the  way." 

Now  Harry  had  quite  enough  business  of  his  own  to 
think  of,  without  such  speculation  as  this.  He  had  had  a 
letter  from  his  manager  that^morning,  concerning  some 
new  plans  for  the  coming  season,  with  an  element  of 
change  and  risk  in  them  that  was  quite  inviting;  and 
the  generally  independent  Mr.  Benson  actually  had  asked 
advice  on  a  point  or  two,  besides.  The  matter  needed 
consideration  at  once;  but  first  Harry  had  put  it  off,  while 
the  day  was  so  hot;  and  now — 

The  sound  of  a  gate  opening  not  far  off  roused  him 
out  of  his  reverie.  He  jumped  up,  and  went  to  his 
own  gate  to  look;  he  somehow  expected  to  see  Thyra, 
and  he  did;  she  was  just  going  into  Mrs.  Bishop's.  She 
did  not  turn  her  head  or  notice  him.  He  waited  till 
she  was  out  of  his  sight;  then  he  followed  her.  "I 
don't  care  who's  there,  I  must  see  her  again.''  He 
had  to  bite  his  lips  to  keep  from  saying  this  aloud. 

Thyra  had  had  a  hard  time  of  it  since  the  sailing  party. 
When  Lang  had  left  her  on  a  business  errand  that  morn- 
ing, it  had  not  entered  his  mind  to  be  jealous;  but  in 
the  hot  city  he  met  Hawk,  who  had  also  come  into 
town  for  a  few  hours'  attention  to  affairs, — meaning 


YESTERDAY.  95 

nevertheless  to  return  to  Newport,  as  the  object  of  his 
trip  was  still  unaccomplished. 

"How  are  you  all,  down  on  the  beach?"  Hawk  asked. 
"Mrs.  Lang  as  blooming  as  ever,  I'm  sure.  I  thought 
Sundon  was  getting  very  civil  to  her  when  I  came  away. 
I  suppose  Benson  must  be  going  to  get  up  some  new 
'adapted  French  plays'  thjs  winter,  and  Harry  is  practic- 
ing. He's  always  professional  before  everything." 

Hawk  had  no  special  wish  to  make  mischief;  but  an 
idea  having  occurred  to  him  in  which,  as  far  as  he  knew, 
he  was  the  first,  he  was  tempted  to  express  it  The  ef- 
fect rather  pleased  him  too.  Lang,  who  already  gave 
him  credit  for  great  knowledge  of  human  nature,  now 
said,  with  a  vain  attempt  at  coolness,  "Do  you  know 
what  you're  talking  about?" 

Hawk  was  not  moved  by  the  rough  form  of  the  ad- 
dress any  more  than  by  the  evident  pain  he  had  given. 
' '  Why  not  ?  What  have  I  said  to  offend  you  ?  Of 
course  you  know  you  are  safe;  and  I  never  offer  my 
services  to  people  that  have  no  need  of  them.  Good- 
morning;  my  respects  to  Mrs.  Lang."  And  he  was  gone, 
before  his  slower  companion  could  stop  him. 

"I  wish  I'd  slapped  his  face,"  was  Lang's  first  thought, 
looking  after  the  street-car  where  Hawk  had  jumped 
aboard;  but  then  followed  another  idea,  "Well,  do  I 
know?" 


96  YESTERDAY. 

By  evening  Thyra  had  heard  in  full  what  was  on  her 
husband's  mind,  to  her  thorough  distress;  but  he  would 
not  stop;  he  was  not  much  more  discreet  than  she  in  the 
matter  of  talking.  The  next  day  it  was  no  better;  her 
meeting  Harry  on  the  beach  was  a  fresh  provocation.  At 
last,  Thyra,  having  fallen  into  making  an  unspoken  series 
of  comparisons  matching  her  husband's  denunciations  of 
"that  actor  fellow,"  exclaimed,  "I  don't  believe  he'd 
say  such  things  to  any  woman  as  you  have  been  saying 
to  me,  anyhow." 

"How  dare  you?"  Lang  made  a  step  forward  with 
his  hand  lifted,  then  checked  himself,  but  too  late,  for  her 
burst  of  tears  showed  him  she  had  understood.  He  on 
his  part  was  too  much  ashamed  to  apologize;  a  state  of 
mind  which  does  not  improve  the  temper.  When  the 
second  morning  came,  he  insisted  she  should  shut  herself 
up  in  her  own  room.  "I  won't  have  you  setting  all  the 
people  looking  at  you  as  they  did  yesterday." 

"That's  your  own  fault,  quarreling  with  me  for 
nothing. " 

She  really  meant  what  she  said;  she  alone  still  did 
not  appreciate  the  real  state  of  things;  but  this  unfor- 
tunately Lang  did  not  believe. 

The  day  dragged  on  wretchedly,  till  by  and  by  she  said, 
timid  and  tearful,  ' '  At  least  you  might  let  me  go  and  see 
Grace  Delahay;  she's  sure  to  be  at  home  this  afternoon." 


YESTRKDAY.  97 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  out.     It's  too  hot  to  make  calls." 

"But  you  needn't  come,   need  you?" 

"  Miss  Delahay's  a  good  enough  frie'nd  for  you;  a  lady, 
well-connected,  quiet;  but  that  vagabond  cousin  of  hers  is 
always  bringing  his  pack  of  scamps  about  her;  how  can  I 
tell  you  won't  find  Sundon  over  there  ? " 

"Not  now.  Mr.  Tyne  and  Mr.  Corbin  are  both  away, 
and  he  never  goes  to  call  on  her  by  himself.  He  don't 
like  her,  and  I  think  she  don't  like  him  either." 

"Shows  her  good  sense.  Well,  you  may  go.  Come 
back  early,  that's  all;  I  want  you  here  at  tea.  Yes,  Grace 
Delahay's  the  kind  of  woman  I  like  you  to  know.  I 
wish  she  were  married,  and  could  matronize  you;  I  don't 
know  but  she  does  already." 

Lang  was  so  far  satisfied,  that  he  did  not  watch  Thyra's 
going. 

When  Thyra  asked  for  "the  ladies,"  the  servant  told 
her  that  both  were  gone  to  Mrs.  Waldron's,  but  that  Miss 
Delahay  would  soon  come  back.  "  I'll  wait  for  her,"  said 
Thyra,  feeling  as  if  to  return  to  the  hotel  at  once  were  im- 
possible. She  went  into  the  parlor,  which  ran  through 
the  house  from  front  to  back;  an  old-fashioned  low-ceiled 
room,  dating  from  Colonial  times,  with  heavy  beams  over- 
head, and  a  general  effect  of  a  ship's  cabin.  The  blinds 
were  all  closed  except  those  of  one  long  window  which 
was  also  a  door,  opening  on  Grace's  favorite  veranda. 


98  YESTERDAY. 

Thyra  sat  down  near  it,  in  a  low  straw-chair.  As  soon 
as  the  servant  had  gone,  she  gave  a  long  sigh,  almost  a 
sob,  and  pressed  her  hand  to  her  head.  She  felt  worn  out 
with  the  life  she  had  been  leading  in  these  last  days.  If 
her  husband  expected  her  to  prefer  him  before  all  other 
men,  he  should  not  treat  her  so  unkindly.  Some  did 
not,  as  she  had  told  him.  True,  she  had  not  to  be  any 
one  else's  wife;  and  perhaps  all  men  were  so  to  their  wives; 
but  if  it  could  be  different — 

The  door-bell  rang  very  sharply.  She  started  and  shiv- 
ered. She  trembled  still  more,  when  through  the  door 
from  the  parlor  into  the  hall,  which  stood  wide  open,  she 
saw  and  heard  Harry  Sundon,  asking  also  if  the  ladies 
were  at  home,  proposing  in  his  turn  to  wait  for  Miss 
Delahay.  As  he  entered  the  parlor,  he  pushed  away  the 
chair  which  the  servant  had  set  against  the  door  to  keep 
it  open,  and  it  slammed  behind  him.  "What's  that?" 
Thyra  cried,  springing  up. 

"Only  me,  Mrs.  Lang,"  he  said.  "There  is  such  a 
draught,  I  thought  it  might  be  too  much  for  you,  but  if 
you  would  rather,  I  can  open  the  door  again." 

"No,  it's  quite  right — I'm  much  obliged — I — "  she 
hardly  knew  what  she  was  saying.  To  have  him  come 
here,  and  just  now !  It  was  dreadful,  after  all  Jack's  talk, 
but — how  pleasant  his  voice  was  !  She  had  not  noticed 
it  before;  voices  she  was  slow  to  remark,  it  was  her  eye 


YRSTF.RDAY.  99 

that  was  cStaght  first  when  she  observed  people.  She  sat 
down  again  by  the  long  window;  the  only  light  in  the 
room  fell  on  her  face.  Harry  saw  the  darkness  under 
her  eyes,  and  the  dimmed  color  in  her  cheeks;  it  pleased 
him  better  just  then  than  if  she  had  been  in  brilliant 
looks.  He  put  himself  near  her,  but  a  little  in  the 
shadow;  she  could  not  see  his  features  as  distinctly  as  he 
hers,  but  she  noticed  how  handsome  his  eyes  seemed, 
the  gray  growing  darker  and  the  pupil  dilating  in  the 
half-light,  softening  the  whole  expression  of  his  face. 

"  I  didn't  see  you  this  morning  on  the  beach,"  he  said. 

"No,   I  had  a  headache." 

"You  don't  look  well,  allow  me  to  say.  You  must 
go  sailing  with  us  again;  nothing  like  the  air  on  the  water 
for  headaches,  I  assure  you.  Tyne  and  Corbin  both  trust 
me  alone  with  the  boat  now.  If  Miss  Delahay  only 
comes  back  soon  enough,  we  can  try  this  very  after- 
noon. " 

' '  Did  she  say  she  would  ?  " 

' '  I  haven't  seen  her  to-day  to  ask,  but  I  think  she 
will." 

"I  should  so  like  it;  it  would  be  delightful — but  I 
don't  think  I  can." 

She  was  meaning  to  be  cautious,  and  vex  her  husband 
no  further,  Harry  saw;  and  for  a  moment  he  himself  felt 
an  impulse  to  draw  back  as  she  did.  To  play  a  part  with 


100  YESTERDAY. 

unforeseen  cues  and  improvised  answers  wa£*  interesting 
enough;  but  to-day,  in  spite  of  former  ventures  on  dan- 
gerous ground,  he  was  quite  beyond  his  experience;  he  had 
too  often  been  in  company  he  knew  to  be  bad,  but  he  had 
brought  it  no  recruits.  Any  diversion  from  outside  might 
even  now  have  changed  the  course  of  his  destiny;  but  fate 
is  not  so  fond  of  watching  over  those  who  let  themselves 
drift.  Another  minute,  and  he  was  asking  Thyra,  in  his 
softest  tones,  "Why  not?  surely  it  can't  do  you  any  harm, 
such  a  good  sailor  as  you  are." 

"Oh,   no,   that's  not  it." 

"Our  company,   perhaps?     We  are  dull?" 

"No;  you  are  all  so  kind  and  so  nice,  it's  horrid  to 
have  to  give  it  up." 

"You  don't  mean  you  never  will  come  with  us  any 
more  at  all  ?  " 

' '  I'm  afraid  so. " 

"Are  you  going  away?" 

' '  No — not  yet. " 

"I  see;  Mr.  Lang  is  sulky  because  we  didn't  invite 
him  last  time.  Well,  he  shan't  be  left  out.  I'll  go  over 
and  ask  him." 

"Oh,  no,  no,  don't!"  She  was  really  frightened,  re- 
calling her  husband's  mood  when  she  quitted  him. 

Harry  pretended  not  to  notice,  as  he  went  on:  "He 
can't  be  offended  at  being  asked,  whether  he  likes  sailing 


YESTERDAY.  IOI 

or  not.  And  if  he  won't  join  us,  that  hasn't  kept  you 
away  before." 

"  He  don't  want  me  to  go  any  more  without  him." 

"You  are  sure  we  can't  persuade  him?" 

"Quite.  "  He  hates  sailing." 

"And  rowing  too? " 

"Yes." 

"Why?  I  didn't  think,  after  letting  you  matronize 
Miss  Delahay  all  summer,  he  would  be  such  a  dog-in- 
the-manger  now.  He  can't  be  afraid  for  you,  after  we 
have  brought  you  safe  home  so  many  times,  can  he  ?  " 

He  drew  his  chair  a  little  nearer  hers.  She  moved  a 
little  farther  from  the  window.  He  took  up  a  paper-knife 
from  a  table  beside  him,  and  began  to  play  with  it. 

"Take  care,"  said  she,    "you'll  break  it." 

"Oh  no.  But  why  won't  Mr.  Lang  trust  you  with 
us  ? " 

"I  don't  think  he  has  any  reason." 

"What  is  the  matter  then?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know — he's  so  unkind  lately — he  never 
used  to  be."  She  felt  that  Harry  was  making  her  say 
whatever  he  chose;  yet  she  seemed  now  to  be  no  longer 
able  to  help  herself. 

"He  ought  not  to  begin  now.  I  wonder  at  him;  who 
could  be  harsh  to  you?  But  the  best  of  us  men  are  stu- 
pid fellow.s;  I  dare  say  I  have  annoyed  you  many  a  time." 


102  YESTERDAY. 

"No,  you  are  always  so  good  to  me!" 

She  gave  a  great  sigh,  and  he  a  sudden  violent  start 

"Look  out!"  she  cried,    "you'll  upset  that  table." 

"Oh  confound  the  table!  Excuse  me,  but  to  have 
you  seem  in  so  much  trouble  when — you  ought  to  know 
I  would  do  anything  to  get  you  out  of  it;  and  then  to 
talk  about  tables!  Don't  now." 

Thyra,  having  had  experience  of  one  lover  already, 
could  not  but  understand  something  from  his  look  and 
tone.  She  tried  to  resist  them. 

"You  can  do  nothing  for  me, — not  you, — do  go 
away. " 

"How  can  I  sit  here  and  hear  you  tell  me  that,  dar- 
ling?" He  rose  as  he  spoke;  he  dropped  the  paper-knife, 
but  jhe  did  not  notice  that  now. 

"  Don't !  "  cried  foolish  Thyra,  "  If  you  had  any  right 
to  call  me — but  you  know  you  mustn't." 

"I  know  nothing  of  the  kind,  and  here's  the  proof, 
love,  and  stop  me  if  you  will !  "  Before  she  knew  what 
was  coming,  he  bent  over  her,  put  his  hands  on  her 
shoulders,  and  kissed  her  on  both  cheeks,  on  her  fore- 
head, on  her  lips.  She  did  not  move  or  speak;  but  he 
saw  that  for  the  moment  she  had  forgotten  everything  but 
him,  and  was  willing  to  forget 

Just  then  a  little  inarticulate  cry  sounded  outside. 
They  started  apart;  Thyra  retreated  into  the  room,  cov- 


YESTERDAY.  103 

ering  her  face;  Harry  turned  to  the  long  window,  and  saw 
Grace,  white  and  shocked.  Her  foot  was  on  the  sill;  she 
could  not  have  been  listening,  or  he  should  have  noticed 
it;  she  must  have  come  up  in  that  last  moment,  and  ex- 
pecting to  meet  no  one,  been  at  once  arrested  by  what  she 
had  not  thought  to  see. 

He  was  cool  and  on  the  defensive  at  once.  "Miss 
Delahay,  I  owe  you  an  explanation."  This  in  a  tone 
meant  to  convey:  "You  are  misinterpreting  us." 

"One  moment,"  said  Grace,  evidently  struggling  for 
composure  too.  She  passed  him  and  went  to  Thyra,  to 
his  surprise  taking  her  by  the  hand  and  speaking  very 
gently,  as  if  to  a  frightened  child.  "Mrs.  Lang,  if  you 
will  go  to  my  room  and  wait  for  me,  you  will  not  be  dis- 
turbed. Mrs.  Bishop  may  be  here  at  any  minute." 

Thyra  let  herself  be  led  out,  not  even  looking  up. 
Grace  soon  returned,  and  went  out  on  the  veranda; 
Harry,  who  had  stood  still  where  she  left  him,  followed 
her.  There  was  a  small  table  outside  with  work  on  it; 
she  took  her  place  behind  it,  and  stood  looking  across  it 
at  him.  In  the  fuller  light,  he  seemed  older  and  harder 
than  she  had  ever  seen  him,  and  his  eyes  were  not  soft 
now,  as  the  pupils  contracted.  Defiant  as  his  face  had 
grown,  he  was  plainly  no  more  at  ease  than  herself,  in 
spite  of  their  mutual  efforts.  She  waited,  but  he  did  not 
open  his  lips;  then  she  spoke: 


104  YESTERDAY. 

"What  have  you  to  say  to  me?  I  heard  your  last 
words — I  saw  you — it  was  well  you  had  not  some  other 
spectator. " 

"You  take  great  interest  in  my  affairs,  Miss  Delahay," 
he  answered  savagely.  "Can  I  flatter  myself  you  are 
jealous  ? " 

He  had  just  enough  self-possession  left  to  hope  that 
this  was  the  real  interpretation  of  her  steady  coldness  to 
him,  and  to  feel  that  it  would  give  him  the  advantage. 
But  the  words  were  no  sooner  spoken  than  he  saw  that  he 
could  not  have  blundered  worse.  If  Grace  had  been  mar- 
ble before,  she  was  white  fire  now;  he  dropped  his  eyes, 
her  look  was  so  scorching.  "  You  !  "  she  said,  between 
her  teeth,  "you!  you!  and  after  the  advantage  you  have 
taken  of  her  coming  to  see  me !  Why  have  I  nothing  at 
hand  that  would  kill  you  quick  !  " 

His  anger  left  him;  he  felt  himself  shamed  before  her; 
he  knew  he  had  insulted  her  beyond  bearing,  and  that 
she  deserved  very  different  treatment  at  his  hands.  "  For- 
give me !  "  he  said.  "  How  should  a  man  in  my  case  not 
be  beside  himself?  You  speak  of  her;  well,  she,  both  of 
us,  are  in  your  power;  what  will  you  do  with  us,  with 
her?" 

"What  can  I  do,  indeed?"  she  said,  more  calmly, 
but  still  so  sternly  that  he  feared  she  suspected  him 
of  double-dealing.  "I  will  not  be  your  accomplice, 


YESTERDAY.  105 

nor  would  I  be  Mr.  Lang's  spy;  but  you  give  me  no 
better  choice." 

"Surely,  between  two  women,  and  neither  hard- 
hearted, there  must  be  some  other  way." 

"Not  with  you  on  the  spot  All  depends  on  you. 
If  you  really  love  Thyra,  have  some  pity  on  her;  do 
not  disgrace  her,  for  your  mother's  sake,  if  you  re- 
member one." 

"If  I  do?  You  should  have  named  some  other 
name  to  me  than  that  The  woman  that  neglected 
her  own  child  from  his  birth,  and  forsook  him  for  the 
sake  of  a  lawless  love — there's  a  recollection  to  appeal 
to  now !  If  I  am  my  mother's  son,  why  then,  for  all 
I  hate  the  thought  of  her,  it's  natural  enough  I  should 
follow  her  way.  That's  not  what  you  mean  to  ask  of 
me ! " 

He  expected  to  see  Grace  flash  into  fresh  anger,  as 
his  own  excitement  paused  enough  to  let  him  reflect 
Instead,  her  voice  had  a  pitying  tone  at  first,  though  it 
hardened  as  she  went  on.  "That  helps  to  explain  you 
then;  I  have  bran  prepared  for  what  you  are,  ever  since 
your  speech  of  the  other  day,  and  now  I  see  why  you 
are  so.  Your  place  is  to  be  Mr.  Hawk's  companion; 
he  will  not  find  himself  alone  in  his  circle." 

"The  other  day?  I  declare  I  was  only  teasing  you 
then.  I  didn't  expect  myself  that  matters  would  ever 


106  YESTERDAY. 

go  on  so  far  as  they  have  now.  And  what  do  you 
know  of  Hawk,  th.it  you  class  me  with  him  ? " 

"  He  used  to  say  such  things  too,  to  tease  me  too, 
I  suppose.  And  I  think  my  cousin  Mont  knows  more 
of  him,  that  he  would  not  te'.l  and  I  .would  not  hear." 

"Well,  leaving  out  details,  what  does  Mont  say  of 
Hawk  on  the  whole?  Dan  is  no  friend  of  mine,  any 
more  than  of  his." 

"He  called  him  'a  thorough  scoundrel,  a  man  without 
a  heart,  false  to  the  core,'  only  three  days  past." 

"Does  Mont  call  me  so?  Am  I  so?  Think  over 
what  Mont  says  of  me,  look  me  in  the  face,  and  tell 
me  if  I  deserve  all  that." 

She  did  look  at  him,  so  long  and  searchingly  that  he 
could  hardly  bear  it;  but  under  his  pleading  gaze,  her 
own  softened  a  little.  She  remembered  now  that  when 
she  had  first  met  Hawk,  she  had  once  turned  and  looked 
so  into  his  eyes,  as  he  sat  talking  to  her;  she  wanted  then 
to  feel  the  reason  of  the  repulsion  towards  him  which  had 
seized  on  her  from  the  beginning,  she  not  having  evi- 
dence against  him  at  the  moment  which  could  make 
it  clear  to  herself.  Those  eyes  had  shown  no  shrink- 
ing from  her  inspection;  how  should  they,  when  they 
were  so  shallow?  One  seemed  to  come  up  against  a 
blank  wall  there;  for  all  the  man's  personal  beauty,  they 
were  unbeautiful;  for  all  his  intelligence,  empty;  no  vi- 


YESTERDAY.  107 

ality  in  them,  no  soul  behind  them.  On  the  contrary 
Harry's  were  deep  and  full  of  life;  half-a-dozen  different 
feelings  were  trying  now  to  find  expression  in  them;  noth- 
ing was  clear  in  his  mind,  and  every  emotion  so  strong, 
that  no  single  one  could  give  first  place  to  any  other. 

"No,"  Grace  said  slowly;  "Mont  must  be  right;  you 
were  not  worthless  after  all.  But  what  does  that  help 
now  ?  When  you  have  gone  so  far  as  you  have  to-day, 
how  shall  any  one  move  you  to  take  a  step  back  ? " 

Harry  was  surprised  at  her  despairing  tone;  he  had  ex- 
pected a  cool  moral  lecture  from  a  very  distant  plane,  and 
this  comprehension  of  the  force  of  the  situation  touched 
him  somehow. 

"  If  Thyra  only  says  the  word,  the  whole  thing  can  be 
at  an  end, "  he  said.  ' '  There's  no  great  harm  done  yet, 
I  assure  you;  believe  me  !  Only  let  her  send  me  away." 

Grace  bit  her  lips,  trie''  to  keep  silent,  had  to  speak. 
1 '  Do  you  know  her  no  better  than  that  ?  She  never 
will,  she  cannot.  She  is  not  bad  of  herself,  but  you 
have  mastered  her  entirely." 

Unconsciously  his  face  brightened. 

"Oh,  how  can  you!"  cried  Grace,  reading  his  look. 
"Think  what  this  is  to  come  to.  You  know  she  can 
keep  nothing  to  herself;  her  husband  will  find  her  out, 
and  next  the  whole  world,  and  then — " 

"Well?" 


108  YESTERDAY. 

"I  thought  love  meant  two  people  should  make  each 
other  happy,  or  else  one  give  up  happiness  that  the  other 
should  be  more  secure.  You  only  bring  wretchedness 
where  there  was  peace  before;  and  if  this  goes  on,  ruin; 
and  after,  such  men  as  you  think  yourselves  free  to  for- 
sake a  woman — it's  horribly  unfair  !  " 

Was  this  Grace,  with  the  tear-filled  eyes  and  quick, 
passionate,  uncertain  utterance  ? 

"  You  think  too  hardly  of  me,  on  my  word  you  do  !  " 
Harry  answered.  "If  Thyra  were  really  mine,  I  would 
never  throw  her  off,  I  would  never  even  let  her  go." 

"But  since  she  is  not,  it  is  not  forsaking  her  to  leave 
her. " 

"You  think  I  ought  to?" 

' '  Yes,  and  now,  and  at  once. " 

"I  can't  do  it." 

"Then  what  becomes  of  her?     I  cannot  say  it  again." 

"  You  might  as  well  ask  me  to  cut  my  own  throat  as  to 
go.  She  loves  me." 

"I  would  rather  die  than  harm  anything  I  loved." 

"I  declare,  I  believe  you  mean  what  you  say.  Well 
— tell  me  just  what  you  want  me  to  do." 

' '  To  leave  this  place  at  once,  and  keep  away  from  it 
while  she  is  here;  to  avoid  meeting  her,  seeing  her,  hear- 
ing of  her,  as  long  as  her  husband  lives;  and  not  to  think 
of  any  way  to  shorten  his  life. " 


YKSTF.RD.1Y.  109 

"You  ask  a  great  deal;  you've  no  idea  how  much  !" 

"An  easy  thing  is  not  worth  asking  of  a  man  of 
honor. " 

"Do  you  think  I'll  do  it?" 

"  I  cannot  tell." 

' '  You  don't  say  '  forget  her. ' " 

"No;  I  know  sotrte  things  are  impossible  all  at  once. 
But  what  I  tell  you  is  not  impossible,  only  very  hard." 

"  You  shall  not  say  it  was  too  hard  for  me.     I  will  go." 

Her  face  lighted  up,  and  she  put  out  her  hand  to  him. 
"1  bid  you  good -speed/' 

"Only  just  let  me  see  her  first.     One  minute!" 

Her  face  darkened.  "If  you  do  you  will  stay.  I 
promise  you  to  be  gentle  to  her;  but  you  must  not  see 
her. " 

"All  or  nothing!  Nothing  then.  Good-bye.  If  it 
were  not  for  you,  I  could  not  have  done  this.  When 
you  see  Mont,  tell  him  so,  and  he'll  excuse  me  for  leav- 
ing the  house  without  a  care-taker.  But  be  kind  to 
Thyra." 

"Believe  me,   I  will." 

"  Good-bye." 

Grace  watched  him  till  he  was  out  of  sight,  then  went 
upstairs.  Thyra  lay  on  the  bed  with  her  face  in  the  pil- 
low; she  sprang  up  as  Grace  entered,  and  cried  out, 
"Have  you  sent  him  away?" 


110  YESTERDAY. 

"Yes." 

"Oh  how  could  you?" 

"How  could  I  not?" 

"I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do.  I  can't  live  without 
him,  and  I  mustn't  have  him  anywhere  near  me,  and  I 
can't  die." 

"She  is  the  greatest  fool  I  ever  Saw,"  thought  Grace; 
but  she  said  very  gently,  stroking  Thyra's  hair,  "You 
acknowledge  you  must  have  parted,  and  it  is  over  now." 

"  He  won't  come  back  !     He  left  no  word  for  me  !  " 

"You  know  he  ought  not  to  have." 

"What  shall  I  do?     I'm  left  all  alone." 

"  You  alone  ?  "  Grace  could  hardly  kept  her  voice  from 
sounding  bitter,  thinking  of  her  own  loveless-seeming  lot 
"Not  you;  you  have  your  mother  and  your  husband." 

"My  mother!  You  don't  know  her.  She's  coming 
on  to-morrow,  and  I  wish  she  would  stay  away;  she's  so 
religious,  she  never  likes  anybody  to  have  a  bit  of  fun  even. 
And  Jack  will  tell  her  all  he  thinks, — he's  guesseJ  every- 
thing,— and  I  shall  get  nothing  but  lectures  and  scoldings. 
He  that  used  to  be  so  kind  !  Now  he  says,  if  I  don't  be- 
have better,  he'll  send  me  home  with  her  when  she  goes, 
and  he  won't  have  anything  more  to  do  with  me;  and 
then  I  shall  die." 

"He  cannot  mean  that  in  earnest;  surely  you  can  make 
him  forgive  you,  if  you  try.  I  am  sure  he  really  loves 


YESTKKDAY.  Ill 

you  better  than  any  one  else  can,  and  for  the  sake  of 
that — " 

"Oh,  don't!  I  must  be  a  wicked  woman,  but — " 
Thyra's  voice  failed  her;  she  began  to  sob  inarticulately, 
and  shed  floods  of  tears.  Grace  could  quiet  her  more 
easily,  now  she  ceased  lamenting  in  words;  still  it  was  a 
long  time  before  she  was  fit  to  go  back  to  the  hotel.  Left 
to  herself,  Grace  was  but  little  calmer.  The  shock  of 
coming  face  to  face  with  such  passions  was  terrible  to  her; 
the  firm  world  she  had  thought  she  knew  seemed  to 
quiver  and  break  under  her  feet  She  was  not  sure 
whether  she  coujd  believe  Harry,  in  spite  of  his  declara- 
tions; a  saying  of  Tyne's  concerning  him,  "  It's  a  pity  he 
is  so  much  a  man  of  impulse,"  rang  in  her  ears.  In  those 
first  moments,  she  was  ready  to  distrust  any  one;  even  her 
faith  in  Felix  was  disturbed.  Not  till  the  morrow  did  she 
recover  herself,  when  she  learned  Harry  had  really  gone 
at  once,  starting  for  Maine  to  join  Goring. 

That  personage  was  for  the  moment  astonished  when 
Harry  walked  into  his  quarters,  saying,  "Have  you  any 
room,  old  fellow?  I've  come  to  stay  if  you  have."  Still 
nothing  in  the  way  of  pleasing  one's  self  surprised  the 
banker  long.  "Devilish  glad  to  see  you,  Harry.  I'm 
just  left  all  alone;  Blood  and  Stout  went  off  this  morning; 
but  I'm  not  ready  to  fry  myself  down  town  again  yet 
What's  all  this  talk  about  California  ?  There  was  a  long- 


112 


ish  paragraph  in  the  last  Herald  I  had.  Is  Benson  broke  ? 
I  know  he  lost  money  in  the  spring,  in  spite  of  you." 

"Not  so  bad  as  that;  but  he  thinks  a  new  audience 
would  be  good  for  us." 

'  '  When  are  you  off  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  yet;  but  he's  given  me  time  enough 
to  see  how  you're  getting  on." 

"I  wish  you'd  brought  Monty  Tyne  too.  But  now, 
Harry,  how  could  you  leave  Mrs.  Lang?  Hawk  wrote 
me  you  were  having  it  all  your  own  way  in  that  quarter. 
He  always  tops  off  his  business  letters  with  some  news, 
and  —  " 

"  A  very  wise  question  for  you,  when  you  see  me  here. 
Do  I  go  where  I  don't  like  in  vacation,  my  dear  fellow? 
Dan's  head  is  always  running  on  the  petticoats;  I'm  bored 
to  death  with  him,  I  want  to  hear  something  else.  What 
luck  did  you  have  to-day  ?  tell  ahead.  " 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

TYNE  found  himself  kept  in  Chicago  for  ten  days 
by  Mrs.  Bishop's  affairs  and  his  own;  both  were 
in  a  sufficiently  involved  condition  to  annoy  him  a  good 
deal  at  first;  the  more  that  notwithstanding  he  told  him- 
self, "You  could  do  little  enough  if  you  were  there,"  he 
was  anxious  to  return  to  Long  Island. 

After  a  while  he  had  news  from  his  friends  which 
s  emed  to  contradict  his  forebodings.  Grace's  hoped-for 
chance  of  something  to  do  had  come  to  her  at  last  She 
wrote  that  she  had  accepted  the  place  of  governess  to  the 
little  daughter  of  her  own  father's  trusted  friend,  Major  Ro- 
maine,  of  the  regular  army.  The  Major  was  at  Fort  Ham- 
ilton now,  having  just  returned  from  a  short  foreign  trip 
with  his  family;  though  he  would  probably  be  ordered  to 
some  far  Western  post  before  long.  This  last  informa- 
tion did  not  please  Tyne,  who  knew  nothing  of  the 
West  beyond  Chicago,  and  had  distrustful  views  as  to 
its  distant  regions.  "Still  with  the  Major  and  his  wife, 
she  can't  be  badly  treated,"  he  summed  up. 


114  YESTERDAY. 

There  had  also  been  a  letter  from  Harry,  with  the 
full  history  of  Benson's  plans,  which,  if  they  were  suc- 
cessful, would  take  the  company  as  far  as  Australia.  It 
ended: 

"Now  don't  plague  yourself  any  longer  with  thinking 
me  a  doubtful  admirer  of  a  woman  you  can't  bear.  We 
shall  not  quarrel  for  that,  since  the  whole  thing  is  over 
and  done  with,  and  no  one  the  worse.  I'll  tell  you  more 
when  we  meet,  if  you  care  to  know;  and  all  considered, 
it's  best  you  should.  I  hope  we  shall  part  friends, — but 
on  my  word  I  shall  be  sorry  to  part  at  all,  believe  me." 

"I  ought  to  be  content  with  that,  for  the  present  at 
least,"  thought  Tyne. 

By  degrees  his  business  grew  easier  to  settle,  till  almost 
before  he  knew  it  everything  was  done.  Still  he  was 
impatient  to  be  off;  Harry  had  written  again,  only  a  few 
lines,  but  saying  he  should  be  at  the  Blanque  Hotel  in 
New  York  by  the  time  when  Tyne  expected  to  come  back. 

Arriving  in  town  one  bright  morning,  Tyne  went  at 
once  to  the  Blanque,  where  he  had  engaged  a  room, 
meaning  to  be  in  town  while  Harry  was.  On  inquiring 
for  his  friend,  the  clerk  answered,  to  his  surprise,  "Mr. 
Sundon  hasn't  been  near  here,  sir/"  in  a  tone  which  im- 
plied, "And  you  might  have  known  better  than  to  ex- 
pect him; "  while  two  bystanders,  one  of  whom  was 
unfolding  some  newspaper  more  well-known  than  well 


YESTRKDAY.  115 

thought  of,  gave  each  other  a  sly  look.  "But  there's  a 
letter  for  you,"  added  the  clerk,  bringing  out  one  ad- 
dressed in  Harry's  hand;  a  yellow  envelope  without  even 
a  postmark,  the  stamp  being  cancelled  by  two  pen-strokes, 
after  the  fashion  of  small  up-country  post-offices.  Harry 
was  not  over-fanciful  about  stationary,  but  such  an  in- 
formal-looking missive  as  this  that  the  clerk  seemed  try- 
ing to  read  by  clairvoyance  while  he  slowly  let  it  pass 
from  his  hands  to  those  which  had  the  right  to  open  it, 
had  not  been  written  in  town.  "Delayed  in  coming 
from  Maine,  that's  all,"  Tyne  thought;  still  the  curiosity 
of  the  people  about  him  suggested  he  knew  not  what 
of  unpleasant.  He  went  to  his  room  to  solve  the  puz- 
zle unobserved;  but  before  he  had  time  to  look  into  tha 
letter,  there  was  a  knock  at  his  door,  and  Corbin  entered, 
in  an  unusually  melancholy  and  discomposed  state. 

"Goring  said  you  might  be  here,"  he  began,  "and 
I  came  to  say  I'm  not  going  back  to  our  house.  It 
don't  make  any  difference,  I  suppose;  our  time's  nearly 
up,  isn't  it?  but  I  thought  it  was  more  civil  to  tell  you 
myself,  and — "  He  stopped,  as  if  he  had  something 
more  to  add  that  he  found  it  hard  to  speak  of. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?"  asked  Tyne.  "Anything 
I  can  help  you  about  ? " 

' '  Nobody  can  help,  and  everything's  the  matter.  You 
may  as  well  know  it  I  tried  to  write,  and  I  couldn't; 


ii6  YESTERDAY. 

I  came  back,  and  spoke  for  myself, — and  your  cousin 
wouldn't  have  me.  She  was  very  kind — but  it's  no  use. " 

"I  was  afraid  you  hadn't  much  chance;  but  I'm  very 
sorry,  indeed  I  am. " 

"It  must  be  you  she  cares  for;  such  a  wonderful  girl 
can't  but  love  somebody;  and  it  can't  be  Sundon;  if  it 
was,  I  swear  I'd  shoot  him." 

"Come  now!  he  has  as  good  a  right  as  I,  or  any  one — 

"Good  God!  You  don't  know  what  he's  been  about 
then. " 

' '  What  are  you  saying  ?  " 

"Why,   he's  gone  off  with  Mrs.  Lang." 

"  That's  not  true  !  That's  a  damned  lie !  Who  told- you 
that?  I  know  you  would  never  make  up  such  a  story." 

"Goring  says  so,  and  Hawk,  and  Lang  himself,  and 
her  own  mother,  and  everybody." 

"It's  impossible.  Why,  Sundon  wrote  me  there  was 
nothing  between  them —  To  be  sure  that  was  a  week 
ago — " 

Tyne  tore  open  the  letter  he  had  just  been  given,  and 
read  (not  aloud),  in  Harry's  own  writing: 

"  DEAR  MONT, — I  have  to  take  back  what  I  wrote  you  last  week; 
Thyra  Lang  is  with  me  now.  I  can  understand  too  well  what  your 
cousin  must  think;  but  she  is  wrong;  I  intended  nothing  of  the  kind 
up  to  the  moment  I  came  back  to  town.  If  you  don't  want  to  show 
that  you  believe  me  a  liar,  come  down  and  let  me  speak  for  myself." 


YESTERDAY.  117 

There  was  more>  but  Tyne  cculd  not  read  on;  the 
letter  fell  from  his  hand.  "What  your  cousin  must 
think!"  there  was  a  blow  indeed.  "Charley,"  he  said, 
"your  news  is  too  true." 

Corbin  looked  more  disturbed  than  ever;  was  Grace 
concerned,  after  all,  that  Tyne  should  be  so  excited  ? 

"I  wish  it  was  a  lie,"  he  said,  "but  you  see  yourself. 
Everybody  is  talking  about  it;  raking  up  what  he  said 
one  day,  and  she  said  another;  how  he  used  to  hold 
her  hand  when  he  helped  her  out  of  the  boat, — you  know 
that  time  we  had  been  across  to  Neversink,  and  Hawk 
came  down  to  the  dock  to  see  us  in,  just  before  he 
went  to  Newport?  I  never  would  have  thought  of  any- 
thing then — 

4 '  Nor  anybody  else. " 

' '  But  Hawk  makes  a  regular  story  of  it,  I  can  tell 
you.  Then  how  she  and  her  husband  quarreled  the 
last  days,  how  wretched  she  looked  when  she  left  Start's, 
and  I  don't  remember  what  all." 

"Don't  tell  me  what  they  say;  tell  me  what  you  know." 

"That'll  be  only  second  hand,  as  it  is.  Day-before 
yesterday  evening  I  got  back  from  up  river,  and  the 
first  thing  I  saw  was  Gorjng  walking  on  the  beach  smok- 
ing. 'What's  the  news  with  you,  youngster?'  he  calls 
out  'Nothing,'  said  I;  'and  you?'  'Oh,  plenty! 
we've  finished  up  our  summer  with  a  sensation,  we 


Il8  YESTERDAY. 

have.'  Then  he  let  his  cigar  go  out,  and  gave  me 
his  story.  It  seems  Sundon  and  he  had  come  down 
from  Maine  together;  the  weather  turned  so  bad,  Gor- 
ing said,  they  got  sick  of  living  under  Niagara.  Well, 
it's  a  troublesome  journey,  connections  hard  to  make; 
still  they  got  into  town  about  noon,  and  were  meaning 
to  lunch  somewhere  before  Goring  went  to  our  house; 
for  Sundon  said  he  must  stay  in  New  York.  They 
weren't  five  steps  out  of  the  station  though  before  Sun- 
don said  he'd  left  his  cigar-case  in  the  cars,  the  one  you 
gave  him,  and  he  was  going  in  again  to  look  for  it.  So 
Goring  walked  on,  but  Sundon  didn't  catch  up;  after  a 
while  he  turned  and  went  back  for  him,  all  the  way  to 
the  station  at  last;  but  Sundon  wasn't  there  either,  and 
Goring's  never  seen  him  since.  Instead  there  was  a  little 
old  lady  asking  all  the  world  what  had  become  of  her 
daughter.  The  two  ladies  were  going  by  some  north- 
ward-bound train  that  there  was  a  rush  for,  and  a  great 
crowd  in  the  doorway.  The  old  lady  had  pushed  through 
and  thought  the  other  was  following  her  close,  till  she 
got  fairly  into  the  cars,  when  she  looked  round,  and 
nobody  there.  She  hunted  all  through  the  train  till  it 
left,  thinking  her  daughter  was  in  some  other  car;  but 
as  she  couldn't  find  her,  she  let  the  train  go  off,  and 
began  searching  round  the  station;  when  Goring  hap- 
pened on  her,  she  was  talking  to  the  station-master. 


YESTERDAY.  119 

'  Was  she  a  little  girl,  did  you  say,  ma'am  ? '  he  said. 
'Oh,  gracious,  no,  a  woman  grown;'  and  she  described 
her;  Mrs.  Lang,  to  an  eyelash.  The  railroad  people  had 
had  their  own  business  to  mind,  and  had  seen  nothing; 
but  while  they  were  promising  to  do  all  they  could,  Gor- 
ing blurts  out, — you  know  his  way  when  anything  hap- 
pens of  a  sudden,  how  it  stampedes  him  sometimes, — 
'Good  Lord,  then  that's  what  Sundon  left  me  alone 
for  ! ' " 

"So  friendly  of  him,  to  let  the  whole  world  know  that 
something  was  wrong." 

' '  I  think  Goring  was  rather  sorry  he  spoke,  for  at  that 
the  old  lady  turned  right  on  him,  like  a  wild-cat,  he  said, 
and  she  cried  out,  '  Mr.  Sundon  !  what  do  you  know 
about  Mr.  Sundon  ? '  '  Only  that  I  expected  to  find  him 
here,  and  I  don't.'  At  that  she  looked  ready  to  faint, 
but  she  gave  herself  a  kind  of  shake,  and  stiffened 
up  like  a  frozen  thing.  She  walked  to  the  telegraph 
window,  and  sent  off  a  message;  then  out  of  the  station. 
Across  the  street  there  was  a  man  that  keeps  an  apple- 
stand,  touching  up  his  stock  with  a  feather-duster  in  the 
intervals  of  trade.  She  stopped  and  looked  at  him  till 
he  asked  her  if  she  wanted  anything.  '  Did  you  see  such 
a  gentleman  and  lady  pass  by  five  or  ten  minutes  ago  ? ' 

"  'Yes,  ma'am;  they  took  a  hack  and  drove  off,  going 
up  town,  I  think.'  Then  she  went  one  way,  and  Goring 


120  YESTERDAY. 

mother,  for  he  didn't  want  to  be  asked  any  more  ques- 
tions. But  when  he  got  to  his  own  train  he  saw  her 
two  seats  in  front  of  him.  She  never  came  near  him 
f.gain,  though." 

"That's  all?" 

"Not  quite.  He  began  to  make  a  joke  of  the  affair, 
and  say  how  deep  Sundon  had  been,  how  he'd  bluffed 
him  off  every  time  he  asked  a  question  when  they  were 
up  there  in  Maine,  and  how  cleverly  it  must  have  been 
planned  from  the  first,  only  at  the  end  rather  too  quick 
work.  Then  I  got  mad,  and  told  him  Sundon  wasn't 
that  kind  of  man  at  all,  tha't  he  might  lose  his  head  and 
go  wrong,  but  he  wouldn't  lay  traps  weeks  and  months 
beforehand. " 

"Good  for  you." 

"Then  Goring  laughed  and  told  me  I  was  'the  freshest 
he  ever  saw';  so  I  found  it  was  no  use  talking,  and  I  went 
off  to  see  your  cousin,  and  get  the  taste  of  the  thing  out 
of  my  mouth.  As  I  was  let  in,  the  little  old  lady  came 
out;  and  Miss  Delahay  looked  as  if  she'd  been  crying. 
And  then  I  must  go  and  bother  her  !  " 

"Oh,  never  mind  that.  But  what  could  have  brought 
Mrs.  Lang's  mother  to  Start's  again  ? " 

"  I  suppose  she  was  a  stranger  to  New  York,  and  didn't 
know  where  to  go.  But  what  I^ang  came  back  for  is 
plain  enough;  he's  getting  his  witnesses  and  his  counsel. 


YESTERDAY.  121 

You'll  hear  nothing  else  all  over  the  beach,  or  in  our 
house.  Hawk  came  yesterday  morning,  and  he  and  Gor- 
ing are  running  each  -other  about  ;  our  case  '  all  the  time; 
— well,  I  may  be  as  '  fresh '  as  they  choose,  but  I  don't 
see  now  where  the  laugh  comes  in." 

"Nor  I." 

"I  suppose  they're  on  Lang's  side,  in  their  own  way; 
and  I  know  everybody  else  is.  Of  course  Lang's  got  the 
right  of  it,  *too.  Still  I  don't  like  a  man  that's  ready  to 
roast  a  woman  over  a  slow  fire  when  he  catches  her;  no 
matter  what,  I  don't.  And  he'll  do  what  comes  to  the 
same  thing;  he's  engaged  Hawk  as  his  lawyer." 

"The  devil  he  has!  You've  heard  Dan  in  court?  It's 
worse  than  vitriol-throwing." 

"That's  so.  And  Sundon  was  such  a  capital  fellow — 
But  why  couldn't  he  let  that  woman  alone  ?  And  Hawk 
said  to  me,  'You'll  testify  for  us,  my  boy;  you  were  on 
those  sailing  parties.'  I  daren't  refuse,  for  that  would 
look  worse  than  anything;  and  thank  goodness,  he  can't 
get  much  out  of  me,  for  I  don't  know  a  thing  but  what 
I've  been  told.  Only  they  mean  to  have  lots  of  witnesses 
and  no  end  of  row." 

"Yes;  Hawk  wants  his  turn  to  thrill  an  audience;  he 
means  to  bring  down  the  house  too;  and  he  takes  such  an 
appropriate  part,  as  avenger  of  society  !  " 

"It   does   seem    out   of  keeping;    I    never   heard   his 


122  YRSTKKDAY. 

match  for  fast-and-loose  talk; — yet  what  has  he  ever 
done,  though?" 

"Enough,   I  dare  say." 

"  But  the  worst  is,  he  drawled  out  this  morning,  just  as 
I  was  leaving,  '  Miss  Delahay's  evidence  will  be  just  what 
we  want.'" 

"He  shan't  have  it!" 

"Can  you  stop  him?" 

"I  rather  think  so." 

"I'd  thank  you  for  that,  I  would!  As  for  me,  when 
he's  ready,  he  may  send  after  me." 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Goring  says  I  may  take  another  ten 
days,  if  I  like; — he's  guessed  about  your  cousin,  and  he 
means  to  be  kind,  but  I  wish  he'd  let  me  alone  ! — but  I 
can't  tell  where  to  go." 

"Where  are  your  mother  and  sisters  this  summer?" 

"Up  in  Catskill,  at  a  dead-and-alive  boarding  house;  I 
couldn't  stand  that." 

"  Why  should  you,  or  they  either?  Can't  you  afford 
to  give  them  a  lark  ? " 

"Of  course  I  can;  but  mother's  so  quiet." 

"She'll  like  it  for  your  sisters'  sake;  and  she  knows  they 
ought  to  be  properly  matronized,  and  not  run  wild.  Your 
party  will  do  you  credit  too;  your  ladies  are  all  pretty." 

"  You  really  think  they  look — well — stylish  ?  " 


YESTERDAY.  123 

"They  couldn't  be  more  presentable,  my  dear  fellow." 
"You  have  such  ideas!     Well,  I'll  do  it;  and  now  I 

won't  be  bothering  you  any  more." 

Left   to   himself,    Tyne   took   up   Harry's   letter,    and 

read  on: 

"It's  too  long  a  story  to  write.  I'll  explain  when  I  see  you. 
I  must  ask  you  to  help  me  out  a  bit,  on  Thyra's  account;  if  I 
make  the  least  move,  it  may  give  the  other  side  a  chance  to  get 
at  her,  and  I  can't  have  her  meddled  with,  nor  is  Lang  a  man 
for  half- measures.  I  prefer  to  show  no  fight,  and  make  as  quiet 
a  settlement  as  possible;  but  we  want  a  divorce,  and  we  mean 
to  have  it.  If  you  can  tell  Lang  that,  so  much  the  better;  I 
rather  think  he  is  of  the  same  mind.  We  are  at  the  old  Craft 
house,  that  you  showed  me  the  way  to  last  year;  the  caretakers 
are  Ixjarding  us — incog,  of  course.  If  you  can't  come  yourself, 
report  the  enemy's  moves  by  letter,  that's  a  good  fellow.  I 
never  meant  to  humbug  you,  or  your  cousin;  the  whole  thing 
has  been  a  chapter  of  accidents.  Yours,  H.  S." 

"Now,  is  that  all  true?"  thought  Tyne.  "Well,  to 
work !  I'll  find  out  what  I  can  to-day,  and  see  him 
to-morrow, — and  quarrel  with  him  for  good  and  all, 
very  likely  !  It  may  very  likely  be  best  for  Grace  if  I 
do  what  he  asks;  but  on  my  soul,  if  it  wasn't  for  that, 
I'd  leave  him  to  himself  for  daring  to  bring  her  name 
into  such  a  business  !  " 

The  journey  to  Long  Island  seemed  endless.  At  last 
he  found  himself  at  Mrs.  Bishop's  door.  He  walked  in 


124  YESTERDAY. 

unannounced,  and  discovered  that  lady  and  Lang  in  ear- 
nest conversation. 

"That's  just  it,  ma'am,"  Lang  was  saying.  "I  should 
think  Miss  Delahay  might  be  willing  to  appear  on  my 
side." 

"My  niece  in  a  divorce  case!  I  won't  hear  of  it. 
Besides,  what  can  she  know  about  it  ?  Monteith,  is 
that  you?  Tell  Mr.  Lang  it's  not  to  be  thought  of, 
that  he  should  come  here  for  witnesses." 

"Why  not,  ma'am?  Why  not,  Mr.  Tyne  ?  Miss 
Delahay  was  a  trifle  in  my  wife's  confidence,  if  I'm 
not  mistaken." 

"How  dare  you  insinuate  any  such  thing?"  cried 
Mrs.  Bishop. 

' '  If  you  mean  to  say  my  cousin  was  a  party  to  the 
affair — "  began  Tyne,  fiercely. 

"Nothing  of  the  sort!  "  interrupted  Lang,  in  the  same 
tone.  "Can't  you  see  I  know  better?  Of  course  she 
was  given  to  "understand  either  that  there  was  nothing, 
or  that  it  was  all  over;  she's  been  working  for  me,  and 
thought  she  did  some  good;  and  though  it  was  no  use, 
I  thank  her  for  it;  but  all  the  same,  since  she's  been 
made  a  blind  of,  I  should  think  she'd  jump  at  the  chance 
of  showing  it  was  against  her  will.  I'm  sure  they've 
treated  her  badly  enough.  Is  she  in  the  house,  Mrs. 
Bishop  ?  " 


YRSTERDAY.  125 

"No,  and  you  shouldn't  see  her  if  she  was.  You 
may  go  and  ask  the  servant-girls  what  they  spied  out; 
they  are  very  clever  at  watching  what  happens  beyond 
the  kitchen;  but  if  you  were  a  gentleman,  you  would 
not  think  for  a  moment  of  entangling  her  in  such  an 
affair." 

"Aunt,"  said  Tyne,  "a  blunder  is  not  a  crime  in 
Mr.  Lang's  circumstances;  why  should  you  insult  him  so?" 

"My  niece  knows,"  Mrs.  Bishop  continued,  "that  a 
lady  takes  no  notice  when  anything  improper  is  going  on; 
even  if,  young  as  Grace  is,  she  can  suspect  such  conduct 
I  will  not  have  her  disturbed." 

"I'm  sorry,  Mrs.  Bishop;  but  I've  engaged  a  lawyer, 
and  of  course  I  must  follow  his  advice.  He  told  me 
she  would  be  a  valuable  witness.  I  thought  though  it 
would  be  more  civil  to  see  her  or  you  myself  than  to 
send  him  over,  or  surprise  her  with  a  subpoena." 

"Monteith,"  said  Mrs.  Bishop,  "do  you  talk  to  this 
person;  you  know  him,  and  it  is  not  a  proper  business  for 
a  lady." 

With  that  she  stalked  out  of  the  room,  in  all  the  d'g- 
nity  of  her  height;  she  was  within  an  inch  of  six  feet,  and 
neither  age  nor  care  had  made  her  stoop  yet. 

"Yes,  that's  better,"  said  Lang;  "it's  embarrassing  to 
her  of  course;  but  she's  mighty  touchy,  if  she  is  your 
aunt. " 


126  YRSTRRDAY. 

" Only  couldn't  you  leave  my  cousin  in  peace?  You 
must  have  other  witnesses  enough.  Who  is  this  lawyer 
of  yours  ? " 

"Hawk.  He  gave  me  the  first  hint  anything  was  go- 
ing wrong;  and  you  know  how  smart  he  is — " 

"And  how  cruel.  Are  you  really  going  to  put  your 
wife  at  the  mercy  of  his  tongue  ? " 

' '  Why  not  ?  What  has  she  done  to  me  ?  And  what 
has  Sundon  done  to  me  ?  Of  course  you  don't  see  it  so; 
Hawk  says  you're  tarred  with  the  same  brush. " 

"Oh,  does  he?" 

"I  suppose  you  think  there's  nothing  out  of  the  com- 
mon against  your  friend,  or  that  she  had  a  right  to  throw 
me  over  if  a  more  fascinating  fellow  came  along — " 

"  If  I  did,  I  would  have  showed  you  the  door  before 
this.  I  don't  deny  Sundon  has  wronged  you;  and  I  im- 
agine you've  been  quite  as  agreeable  a  husband  as  Madam 
Thyra  deserves;  but  for  all  that  I  advise  you  to  make  a 
peaceable  settlement  of  the  matter;  it  can  be  arranged 
quietly,  if  you  choose,  I'm  sure." 

"Do  they?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  I  don't  I'll  make  them  pay  for  it,  damn 
th-m  !  First  I  meant  to  shoot  them  both;  no  jury  would 
hang  me  for  that;  then  I  saw  it  would  disgrace  them  more 
to  show  them  up  to  the  public.'' 


YKSTKKD.1Y.  12J 

"They've  been  imprudent  enough  to  give  you  the 
chance  ? " 

"Perfectly  brazen.  They've  nothing  to  p'ead.  We 
can  prove  that  your  friend  has  been  attentive  to  my  wife 
all  summer;  that  she  confessed  her  preference  for  him; 
that  the  last  any  one  saw  of  them  was  in  each  other's 
com pan\';  and  that  the  moment  before  he  had  made 
an  excuse  to  return  to  the  place  where  she  was  to  be 
found;  as  if  they  had  an  -understanding." 

' '  They  had  not " 

"And  now  they  are  in  hiding,  no  one  knows  where,— 
unless  you." 

"And  it's  you,  is  it,   that  tells  me  all  this?" 

"Why  not?  I'd  tell  the  whole  world  if  I  could  get  it 
together." 

"You  run  the  chance  of  making  yourself  a  public 
laughing-stock,  if  you  proclaim  your  case  so  openly." 

"All  very  well  for  you  to  think  so;  but  no  decent  man 
will  find  my  Affair  ridiculous,  I'll  tell  you  that.  Such 
treachery  is  no  joke  on  this  side  the  water.  A  woman 
that  I've  done  everything  for — 1  have  a  right  to  punish 
her  if  she  plays  me  false.  I  mean  to  have  a  complete  and 
open  divorce,  and  to  let  the  whole  world  know  what  she 
is;  I'll  be  free  of  her  for  ever,  and  it  shan't  be  easy  for  her 
in  the  doing;  I  don't  care  if  you  think  me  a  fool  or  a 
savage. " 


128  YESTEKD.4Y. 

"I  never  saw  the  woman  less  worth  losing  one's  head 
for,  if  that's  any  pleasure  for  you  to  hear;  but  I  pity  her 
in  Hawk's  hands;  and  I  can't  have  my  cousin  brought 
into  the  matter,  still  less  if  he  conducts  it;  why  couldn't 
you  have  had  some  other  lawyer,  at  least  ? " 

"  Is  he  really  so  hard  a  man  ?  But  how  can  I  change 
now?  It's  all  settled;  I  can't;  no  more  than  I  can  have 
my  wife  back  again.  Will  he  say  more  than  is  fair,  do 
you  think  ?  " 

"  I  know  him." 

"She's  a  woman,  after  all;  and  there  was  a  time — but 
what  should  I  tell  you  that  for?  you  wouldn't  under- 
stand/' 

"Why  not,  as  well  as  Hawk?" 

"Oh,  he  don't  either.  He's  a  man  of  business,  straight 
through.  I  wish  I  was.  " 

"All  the  better  if  you're  not." 

"You  think  so?  I  wonder  if —  Look  here;  she  did 
love  me  once,  I'll  swear  she  did;  what's  changed  her? 
There  wasn't  a  sweeter  or  a  better  girl  this  side  the  Pacific 
the  day  she  married  me;  no,  nor  for  years  after;  not  till 
we  came  here.  She  can't  have  changed  of  herself —  I've 
been  too  hard  on  her,  maybe.  She's  never  been  the  same 
since  we  lost  those  children;  it  upset  her  so —  The  truth 
of  it  is,  I  think  she's  going  mad;  there's  insanity  some- 
where in  the  family,  I  believe.  I  ought  to  have  seen 


YESTKRn.4Y.  129 

that  It's  too  late  now;  to  try  and  get  her  in  an  asylum 
would  be  only  making  things  worse,  since  they're  where 
they  are;  but  if  that's  so,  your  way,  of  settling  up  the 
case  quietly,  would  be  best;  only  I  couldn't  get  Hawk 
to  see  that,  I  suppose." 

"Let  me  try.  I  think  I  could  manage,  without  his 
even  knowing  you  had  had  a  word  to  say." 

"Do.  Do  what  you  choose.  I'll  trust  you  to  get  it 
right.  And  tell  your  ladies  they've  nothing  to  be  afraid 
of;  here's  my  hand  on  that;  and,  on  my  word,  I  don't 
care  what  Hawk  says  of  you,  I'm  sure  you're  an  honester 
man  than  he  is.'' 

It  flashed  through  Tyne's  mind  how  contemptuously 
he  had  spoken  of  Lang  to  Harry  once;  and  he  felt  very 
weary  of  himself,  in  this  world  where  words  cannot  be 
unsaid  or  deeds  undone. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

found  Hawk  and  Goring  fishing  on  the  dock; 
A  they  had  not  caught  much,  but  were  laughing  loud 
together. 

"  Hallo,  Mont !  "  Goring  hailed  him;  "have  you  heard 
our  news  ? " 

"Everything  except  what  luck  Hawk  had  at  Newport," 
Tyne  answered,  coming  close.  "  There's  a  spiteful  little 
rumor  that  Miss  Emma  wouldn't  change  her  mind;  but 
it  was  only  Sam  Longbow, — 'Divide-by-three  Sam/ — 
told  me." 

"Well,  this  once  it's  true,"  said  Hawk;  "but  so  much 
the  better  for  me;  she  and  her  money  have  gone  off  since 
spring.  She  looks  like  a  chills-and-fever  patient,  and  the 
family  bank  account  is  next  to  overdrawn." 

"Stuff!  "  Goring  put  in.  "You  can't  fool  Mont  with 
any  sour  grapes,  don't  you  know  ?  The  Minots  are  as 
solid  as  a  rock;  but  Emma's  going  to  marry  a  navy  man." 

"Yes,"  said  Hawk,  "an  ugly  little  fortune-hunting 
monkey  of  a  lieutenant-commander.  They'll  find  each 


YESTERDAY.  131 

has  taken  the  other  in,  anyway; "  a  prophecy  which 
proved  entirely  false. 

"Dan  must  make  his  million  in  his  own  line,"  said 
Goring.  "This  case  of  Lang's  ought  to  give  you  a 
pretty  good  lift,  my  boy;  whoever  pays  the  costs,  at 
least  you'll  do  yourself  credit  I'm  a  little  sorry  though 
it's  Sundon  you're  going  to  turn  inside  out;  you  skin 
a  poor  devil  pretty  clean,  once  you  set  to  work;  and 
he's  such  a  good  fellow  when  he  isn't  spoiling  for  a 
fight ! " 

"We  never  were  great  friends,  and  all's  fair  for  one's 
own  side,"  Hawk  answered  carelessly. 

"After  all,"  said  Goring,  "the  trial  will  be  a  capital 
advertisement  for  Harry." 

"Sundon  never  does  his  own  advertising,"  Tyne  re- 
plied; "that's  in  Benson's  part  of  the  contract." 

"Well,  but  what  do  you  want,  Mont?"  said  Hawk. 
"I  know  you're  not  here  for  nothing.  I  can  tell  you 
half  of  it  to  begin  with,  I  believe;  if  you've  set  your  heart 
on  that  cousin  of  yours, — she's  a  pretty  creature,  after  all, 
and  you  can  afford  a  love-match  without  making  a  fool  of 
yourself, — you'll  please  her  by  dropping  Sundon.  I  met 
her  yesterday,  and  tried  her  with  a  word  on  the  subject; 
and  if  she  wasn't  fierce  !  '  Too  false  to  speak  of  and  too 
bad  to  think  of/  she  said.  What  a  witness  she'll 
make,  yes,  and  you  too!" 


132  YESTRKDAY. 

"You  hold  your  tongue  about  her,  and  come  with 
me,"  answered  Tyne.  "I'd  like  to  consult  you,  par- 
ticularly. " 

"Tell  us  your  joke  afterwards,  if  he'll  let  you,  Dan," 
Goring  called  after  them.  He  had  to  wait  longer  than  he 
expected  before  Hawk  returned,  which  he  did  alone,  and, 
in  spite  of  himself,  with  an  air  that  made  Goring  say, 
"  Hallo?  what  has  Mont  done  to  you?  This  is  the  first 
time  I  ever  saw  you  with  your  comb  cut,  fighting-cock 
as  you  are." 

"What  should  he  do?  But  I  must  go  and  talk  to 
Lang;  I've  no  time  to  waste  here." 

"Well,   but  will  you  get  Mont  into  your  show?" 

"There'll  be  no  show.  The  thing's  to  be  patched  up 
before  a  judge  in  chambers,  and  you  and  the  newspaper 
reporters  may  just  go  farther  if  you  want  any  excitement." 

"Mont's  a  spoilsport.     Where's  he  gone  to  now?" 

"To  see  his  aunt,    like  a  good   boy." 

"  Mighty  queer  he  should  be  so  attentive  to  her,  when 
he's  got  the  money.  But  that's  the  trouble  with  him;  he's 
not  like  other  people,  and  you  never  know  beforehand 
what  he'll  do.  To  be  sure,  the  pretty  cousin — Hi  ! 
I'm  talking  to  the  air.  Hawk  might  have  said  he  was 
gone." 

Tyne  meanwhile  had  returned  to  Mrs.  Bishop. 

' '  What  have  you  settled  ?  "  she  asked. 


YESTERDAY.  133 

"We  shall  have  it  our  own  way,  I  think.  Where's 
Grace  ? " 

"At  the  Romaines'.  Mrs.  Romaine  came  for  her  this 
morning,  and  she  is  to  spend  the  night.  Do  you  want  to 
see  her  ?  " 

"Not  just  now.  Don't  let  her  be  worried.  I  will 
come  again,  when  everything  is  arranged, — to-morrow  or 
next  day, — and  tell  her  all  myself." 

"  Don't  do  anything  imprudent,  Monteith;  we  mustn't 
make  talk.'' 

"Not  I." 

That  evening,  Tyne  received  in  New  Yofk  a  telegram 
from  Hawk,  in  one  word,  "Agreed."  With  it  came 
also  a  thick  letter,  bearing  a  foreign  stamp;  for  hours  he 
sat  reading  over  and  considering  this,  and  it  was  far  into 
the  night  before  he  rested  from  his  new  study.  Notwith- 
standing, he  rose  betimes,  and  left  town  early  next  morn- 
ing, by  a  railroad  which  before  long  brought  him  to  a 
little  junction  in  a  New  Jersey  clearing.  Instead  of  wait- 
ing two  hours  for  the  connection  train,  which  after  all 
would  not  have  taken  him  direct  to  his  destination,  he 
struck  off  at  once  -on  foot  through  the  thick  woods,  trust- 
ing to  a  memory  which  he  soon  found  did  not  fail  him. 
Harry  and  he— to  what  purpose  they  had  not  foreseen 
— had  amused  themselves  by  exploring  this  country  the 
summer  before;  and  every  nook  of  it  seemed  familiar  to 


134  YESTEKDAY. 

him  yet.  He  met  no  one  on  the  lonely  roads  but  an  oc- 
casional countryman  in  a  wagon,  who  always  offered  a 
lift  and  was  greatly  surprised  at  its  being  declined.  That 
region,  now  full  of  hotels  and  summer  boarders,  was  then 
almost  unknown;  the  great  overflow-tide  from  New  York 
had  not  begun  to  break  upon  it. 

The  day  was  superb;  bright  as  June,  fresh  as  October, 
the  air  cleared  by  tha  influence  of  a  sea-storm,  which  how- 
ever had  not  come  to  shore  in  rain.  It  was  a  pleasure  to 
be  walking  through  woods  and  fields,  except  for  his  er- 
rand and  the  thoughts  which  that  raised  up  to  accompany 
him.  He  was  thrown  back  by  them  afresh  into  his  own 
history,  always  a  torment  to  him.  It  was  no  use  to  tell 
himself  that  he  had  been  deceived  too,  that  no  one  lived 
to  accuse  him  or  to  make  claims  on  him  (the  countess 
was  now  dead),  that  the  world  had  forgotten  the  affair;  he 
could  not  forget,  because  he  could  not  forgive  himself. 
The  worse  he  thought  of  the  countess,  the  worse  it  was 
that  he  should  have  been  a  sharer  in  all  her  treacheries  ex- 
cept the  last;  and  he  was  not  so  sure  now  that  without 
him  she  would  have  entered  on  her  path,  still  less  that 
she  had  been  the  first  of  them  both  to  set  foot  in  it. 
There  was  no  denying  that  he  had  laid  his  own  burden 
on  himself;  and  he  found  no  way  of  getting  free  from  it 
any  more. 

Then   his  friend  !     Harry  had  at  least  taken  a  more 


YESTERDAY.  135 

open  course,  broken  short  with  deceptions;  but  the  case 
was  the  same  after  all,  and  had  begun  too  ill  to  come  to 
good.  To  put  himself  on  a  level  with  such  fellows  as 
Goring  and  his  set,  whom  nobody  could  trust,  not  even 
one  another, — Goring's  very  financial  standing  was  only 
good  because  it  was  a  matter  of  self-preservation  with  him, 
and  if  he  had  been  the  founder  of  the  banking-house  in- 
stead of  merely  succeeding  his  father  in  it,  his  credit 
might  have  suffered — and  for  the  sake  of  a  silly,  worthless 
woman — that  she  should  turn  a  man  false  who  had  been 
fair-dealing  and  frank  above  others !  Then  besides —  But 
here  Tyne  determined  not  to  judge  till  he  knew. 

The  sun  was  past  noon  when  he  came  out  of  a  wood  of 
oaks,  with  holly  for  underbrush  along  the  faint  cart-track; 
this  led  to  a  grove  of  cedars,  some  spreading  as  the  sassa- 
frases,  already  autumn-touched,  which  crowded  in  and  dis- 
puted the  ground  with  them,  others  tall  and  spiry  as  Ital- 
ian cypresses.  It  was  but  a  narrow  and  thin  belt,  after  all, 
letting  in  the  sky  to  reflect  itself  in  tiny  pools  that  united 
to  send  a  brook  trickling  beachward.  In  a  few  moments, 
Tyne  saw  the  long  dark-blue  line  of  the  Atlantic  horizon 
between  the  stems;  a  step  farther,  and  he  was  out  of  the 
trees,  in  a  little  grassy  space,  just  across  which  a  broken 
fence  inclosed  a  weedy  plot  of  land,  where  stood  the 
house  whither  he  was  bound. 

An  old  sea-captain,  who  had  made  money  and  retired, 


136  YESTERDAY. 

had  built  this  dwelling  years  before;  it  was  deserted,  for 
after  his  death  his  heirs  had  preferred  to  live  in  less  sol- 
itary places.  Since  that  time,  it  has  been  burnt  down; 
but  then  it  was  as  Captain  Craft  had  left  it:  large,  spread- 
ing, with  rooms  each  side  the  front  door;  of  few  stories, 
with  a  shingled  roof  sloping  up  to  a  square  lookout  on 
top;  a  broad  veranda,  rather  high  from  the  ground,  ran 
all  round  it  below.  Placed  just  on  the  edge  of  the  beach, 
it  looked  like  a  stranded  ship  which  some  great  storm 
might  yet  float  off.  All  the  front  blinds  were  tightly 
closed,  and  the  only  sign  of  life  was  a  thin  thread  of 
smoke  from  the  kitchen  chimney. 

Tyne  found  the  front  door  ajar  when  he  had  mounted 
the  steps.  He  pushed  it  open  softly,  and  stood  in  a  large 
empty  hall,  narrowed  a  little  on  one  side  by  the  stairs, 
and  running  through  the  house.  The  back  door  was 
wide  open,  and  he  saw  framed  in  it  the  heaving  sea 
and  the  foam-flashes  on  the  breakers;  the  rolling  surf, 
and  his  own  footsteps  on  the  bare  boards,  were  the  only 
sounds  he  heard.  He  reached  the  farther  door  without 
meeting  a  creature;  but  the  moment  his  foot  touched  the 
sill,  Harry  Sundon,  sitting  smoking  outside  on  the  ve- 
randa,  rose  up  and  confronted  him,  with  an  anxious, 
listen'ng  look,  which  changed  at  once  to  one  of  such 
entire  satisfaction  that  Tyne,  thinking  of  Grace,  had  hard 
work  not  to  start  back. 


YKSTEKDAY.  137 

"Mont,  I  didn't  expect  you.  I  was  just  thinking  I 
should  have  to  tramp  over  to  the  village  and  see  if  you'd 
written;  the  old  man's  horse  is  worse  than  anybody's  legs, 
and  for  all  that  the  post-office  is  a  longish  pull  to  get 
at  When  did  you  leave  town  ? —  So  early  ?  You  look 
half-starved.  We've  had  our  dinner,  but  I  think  there's 
something  left  in  the  house." 

He  went  indoors,  and  returned  in  a  few  minutes,  in 
company  with  a  dried-up  and  not  over-intelligent-looking 
old  woman,  who  set  out  a  small  table  on  the  veranda 
with  cold  meat  and  hot  potatoes,  stared  curiously  at 
Tyne,  'and  departed  again. 

"There  now,  that's  the  best  I  can  do,"  said  Harry. 
"We  won't  talk  business  till  you've  finished.  I'm  not 
sure,"  dropping  his  voice,  "  but  the  old  people  mightn't 
hear  more  than  was  good  for  them  through  the  cracks 
of  the  doors  and  between  the  boards;  so  we'll  have  our 
consultation  on  the  top  of  the  house  by  and  by." 

"What  do  you  tell  them  you  are  here  for?" 

"I?  nothing;  only  asked  for  shelter  and  paid  in  ad- 
vance; they  are  not  so  clever  but  what  I  could  parry 
their  questions,  and  they  were  afraid  to  lose  their  lodgers 
if  they  asked  too  many.  I  believe  though  they  take  us  to 
be  either  counterfeiters  or  insane;  anyhow  they  let  us 
alone  and  don't  talk.  They  don't  remember  me  because 
they're  not  the  same  people  who  were  here  before;  those 


138  YESTERDAY. 

are  dead,  I  believe.  We  aren't  troubled  with  society;  the 
sea  is  the  only  neighbor, — no  bad  third  on  a  fine 
day. " 

He  looked  waterwards  as  he  spoke;  Tyne's  eyes  fol- 
lowed his.  The  steps  of  the  veranda  on  this  side  led 
down  to  a  short  board  walk,  ending  at  a  gate  between 
two  tumble-down  little  shanties,  a  boathouse  and  a  bathing- 
house,  that  watched  the  long  gray  beach  meet  patiently 
the  whole  force  of  the  open  ocean,  three  mighty  mingling 
lines  of  breaker.  Clear  and  still  as  the  air  was,  the  waves, 
bringing  news  of  the  fiercer  weather  that  had  raged  far 
out,  came  heaving  and  crashing  in,  towering  higher,  it 
seemed,  than  the  house  that  one  hardly  believed  beyond 
their  grasp;  they  sank  into  sheets  of  foam  behind  one 
another;  they  rose  up  again  out  of  those  white  valleys, 
in  blue-green  walls  made  translucent  by  the  sun;  they 
curled  over,  broke,  fell  with  a  great  roar  on  the  sand, 
then  slid  back  softly  hissing  in  creamy  films,  to  re-form 
their  heavy  ranks  and  break  again.  Nothing  else;  not 
a  sail  flecking  the  pale  pure  blue  of  the  horizon-line; 
not  a  keel  to  cut  the  waters  that  purpled  under  the 
shadows  of  the  few  long  drifting  clouds.  Tyne  felt  the 
simple  splendor  of  the  day  to  be  sadly  out  of  keeping 
with  his  errand:  Harry  only  said, 

"  I  declare,  I  can  hardly  hear  you  for  the  surf;  it's  regu- 
lar artillery  practice." 


YESTERDAY.  139 

"I  didn't  say  anything.  Shall  we  go  upstairs?  I've 
had  dinner  enough." 

The  house  looked  still  more  bare  and  desolate  within 
than  without;  the  only  sign  of  life  was  one  that  Tyne  was 
disposed  to  take  amiss.  As  they  passed  through  a  long 
upper  hall,  a  door  opened,  and  as  if  startled  by  their  foot- 
steps Thyra  peeped  timidly  out;  but  when  she  saw  who  it 
was,  she  smiled,  and  shut  the  door  again.  "Confound 
her,  how  can  she  show  now  ? "  Tyne  thought. 

By  a  steep  narrow  stairs,  —not  an  easy  climb  for  the  old 
captain  if  he  grew  fat  in  his  later  years, — they  came  into 
the  lookout,  open,  railed  about,  and  roofed  over. 

"A  famous  place  this  in  Craft's  day,"  said  Harry;  "he 
must  have  seen  every  vessel  that  crossed  or  coasted.  It's 
not  always  so  empty  out  there  as  it  is  now;  sometimes 
there's  a  regular  fleet  of  all  kinds,  sail  and  steam,  and  I 
wish  the  old  fellow's  spyglass  had  gone  with  the  house, 
not  been  carried  away  with  him.  Take  the  other  chair; 
that's  the  rickety  one;  none  of  the  furniture  is  very  steady 
on  its  pins,  anyhow.  We  must  talk  business,  I  suppose, 
though  I  feel  anything  but  ready;  I've  been  so  well  out  of 
the  world  these  last  days  !  " 

"  Harry,   I  do  believe — " 

"Well?"  Tyne  had  stopped  short,  looking  not  only 
grave,  but  hurt.  "I  thought,  since  you  came,  you  had 
no  quarrel  with  me,  or  you'd  have  staid  away —  Oh  I 


140  YESTERDAY. 

know;  you  have  your  own  misfortunes  on  your  mind,  and 
you  don't  want  to  see  me  in  the  same  boat.  But,  my 
dear  fellow,  there's  no  danger.  I'm  perfectly  safe;  Thyra 
can't  deceive  anybody,  not  even  herself;  and  she's  en- 
tirely devoted  to  me." 

"It's  not  that  I  was  thinking  of." 

"What  then?     Out  with  it." 

"No.  It's  not  my  place.  I  thought  once  you  were 
more  of  a  man  than  myself,  not  only  such  another;  but 
since  things  are  so, .  what  right  have  I  to  be  talking?" 

"I  don't  believe  you  understand  exactly.  Tell  me  just 
what  you  mean,  and  let  me  set  you  right.  That's  what 
one  friend  ought  to  do  for  another.  You'll  never  make 
me  a  sermon,  I  know;  and  I  promise  not  to  lose  my  tem- 
per, no  matter  what  you  fancied." 

"Well  then,  if  you  want  to  hear  me,  you  shall.  What 
do  you  expect  to  do  for  the  rest  of  your  life?  I  under- 
stand Thyra  well  enough;  and  I  know  she  will  never 
be  false  to  you.  But  you  will  get  tired  of  her;  she's  only 
a  child  in  her  nature  and  intelligence,  while  you  are  full- 
grown;  and  she'll  never  develop  into  a  companion  for 
you. " 

"Oh,  you  don't  know  her.  Besides,  one  can't  find 
everything  in  any  one  person;  why  need  she  be  clever, 
when  she's  charming  already  ?  " 

"But  when  you  come   to  find  nothing  in   her,   what 


YRSTRKDAY.  141 

then  ?     She  will  still  cling  to  you, — and  one  day  it  may 
be  the  hardest  work  of  your  life  to  be  kind  to  the^vo- 
man  that  you  are  mad  for  now,  that  you've  stolen  away 
and  made  false,   played  a  shabby  trick  to  win — " 
"Mont,   that's  too  much!" 
' '  I  told  you  I  should  go  too  far,  once  I  began. " 
"Well,  what  next?     I  can't  go  back  now,  if  I  would." 
"No,  it's  too  late.     You  must  keep  what  you  have." 
"No  need  for  you  to  tell  me  that — to  be  sure,  I  asked 
you.     Well  ? " 

"I  can't  believe  you  mean  to  desert  her  in  the  end, 
she's  such  a  hilplesj  thing;  she  never  would  have  gone 
wrong  but  for  you,  and  you  owe  her  everything  you  can 
give  her,  for  you  have  made  her  lose  everything  she  had 
before — " 

"Desert  her!  That  I  don't.  Nobody  could  that 
kn  w  what  she  was.  You'll  change  your  mind  about 
her  et;  and  as  for  me,  I  mean  to  marry  her  as  soon  as 
Lang  gives  her  the  chance.  I've  committed  myself  to  that, 
ooth  by  word,  and  in  writing;  not  that  there  was  any  need 
jf  it,  but  it  happened  so.  If  you  want  more  proof  than 
my  word,  ask  your  cousin  Grace  for  my  letter  to  her." 
"You  wrote  her  one  about  this?" 
"I  did;  it  wasn't  easy,  with  Thyra  looking  over  my 
shoulder,  and  it  was  an  impudent  thing,  I'm  afraid, 
though  I  assure  you  I  didn't  begin  it  with  '  circumstances 


142  YESTERDAY. 

over  which  I  had  no  control; '  still  there  were  reasons  why 
it  had  to  be  written,  as  I  mean  to  tell  you,  for  I  see  you 
don't  know,  and  you  ought  to." 

' '  Poor  Grace  !  Why  have  you  brought  her  into  this  ? 
How  could  you  ?  She  too — I  ought  to  have  kept  you 
two  apart;  I  shall  never  forgive  myself !" 

"  Good  God  !  Mont,  you  are  all  wrong.  Do  you  really 
imagine  I  have  been  flirting  with  your  cousin,  and 
touched  her  heart  ?  " 

"I  hoped  she  might  touch  yours." 

"You  thought  of  that  as  a  possible  match?" 

"On  my  word,  I  did,  ever  since  I  saw  you  first 
together. " 

"You  are  not  an  aristocrat,  after  all.  I'm  sorry  to  pull 
down  your  castle  in  the  air;  but  set  your  heart  at  rest; 
she  and  I  never  pleased  each  other.  I  found  nothing 
in  her  of  what  I  do  in  you." 

"  I  only  wish  you  had.  I  thought  I  knew  you,  and  I  be- 
lieved that  you  could  make  her  happy  if  you  cared  to.  I 
knew  her,  and  saw  she  was  a  woman  who  would  last,  and 
only  be  more  thoroughly  lovable  as  time  went  on;  like 
her  mother  when  her  hair  grew  gray.  You  two  I  really 
trusted,  and  could  have  trusted  you  with  each  other. 
She  was  afraid  of  you,  to  be  sure;  but  I  thought  you 
would  win  her  over,  and  find  it  no  less  worth  the  do- 
ing because  it  would  have  been  easy.  Instead,  you 


YESTERDAY.  143 

must  throw  yourself  away  on  a  woman  not  worth  tak- 
ing, even  if  you  could  have  had  her  honestly — 

"I  tell  you,  you  are  wrong  there,  and  altogether." 

' '  Well,  I'll  say  no  more  about  Thyra  now  and  for  ever; 
but  Grace  ? " 

"She  never  could  have  loved  me:  we  were  too  differ- 
ent; and  she  must  worse  than  hate  me  now.  I  deserve 
it  partly;  I  have  broken  my  word  to  her,  and  I  am 
afraid  she  thinks  I  never  meant  to  keep  it.  I've  been 
insolent  and  unsteady;  but  I  haven't  been  intentionally 
false,  and  we  never  have  been -lovers.  Since  she  has 
told  you  nothing,  I  will;  and  you  may  blame  me  as 
much  as  you  like.'' 

Tyne  listened  anxiously,  while  Harry,  with  growing 
embarrassment,  unfolded  his  story.  At  the  point  where 
the  question  of  Grace's  possible  jealousy  was  raised,  the 
listener  sprang  to  his  feet  with  an  oath. 

"You  dared  to  say  that?  I  swear  I'll  throw  you  off 
the  roof  into  the  sea  when  you  get  done." 

"Once  Thyra  is  taken  care  of,  you  may  call  me  to 
account  any  way  you  please,"  answered  Harry,  steadily. 
"I  know  I  couldn't  have  done  worse;  I  behaved  like  a 
beast,  and  I  felt  it  then.  And  Grace  treated  me  very 
generously.  Poor  thing !  I  can  see  her  now,  making 
herself  speak,  and  the  words  seeming  to  burn  her  lips, 
and  her  eyes  burning  mine." 


144  YRSr/SKDAY. 

"And  after  that?     Go  on,   do." 

Harry  recounted  the  rest  of  the  conversation.  "So 
I  did  leave,  and  went  into  the  woods  to  forget  the 
whole  thing;  but  I  couldn't;  that  was  a  wretched  t'me; 
I  hate  to  think  of  it  now.  Still  I  meant  to  stay  quiet 
in  town  anyway.  I  never  expected  to  meet  Thyra.  But 
when  I  chanced  on  her,  drawing  back  because  there  was 
such  a  crowd,  and  alone,  as  I  thought, — well,  I  made  her 
come  with  me.  Now  you  can  wash  your  hands  of  me, 
since  I've  proved  myself  not  a  man  of  my  word." 

"No.  I'll  stand  by  you.  I  have  already,  though  it 
was  really  on  Grace's  account.  You  see,  Hawk  is  Lang's 
counsel;  and  he  planned  to  distinguish  himself  at  every- 
body else's  expense  by  making  a  great  case — " 

"  Lang's  an  unsuspected  genius  to  choose  him.  \Vhui 
Hawk's  on  one  side,  he  makes  the  other  infamous  and 
ridiculous  both  at  once.  He's  a  born  torturer.  I  can 
stand  my  own  share;  but  Thyra  !  And  if  he  called  your 
cousin  as  a  witness  !  Mont,  can't  we  do  something?  I 
owe  it  to  both  of  them  to  keep  them  out  of  his  hands 
somehow.  He's  not  over-fond  of  you,  and  she — 

"It's  done.  I  have  made  him  give  us  easy  terms; 
Grace  escapes  altogether,  and  everything  is  to  be  settled 
with  as  little  publicity  as  possible.  I  know  enough  about 
Hawk  to  ruin  him,  as  I'll  tell  you  later;  it's  a  long  story. 
He  hates  me  for  that,  but  though  he's  as  false  as  hell,  this 


YRSTERDA  V.  145 

time  he  must  do  as  he  agrees,  or  it  might  mean  state-prison. 
At  the  time  I  first  found  him  out, — not  a  month  ago, — I 
wasn't  sure  that  he  was  the  man,  or  that  it  mightn't  all  be 
a  black-mailing  trick  of  his  accusers;  they  were  strajigers  to 
me,  and  I  came  across  them  by  the  merest  chance.  But 
I  found  they  were  honest  when  I  risked  throwing  it  in  his 
teeth.  How  the  shot  told  !  You've  no  idea  how  he  lost 
his  fighting-cock  airs  all  at  once;  he  fairly  crawled.  Bah  ! 
it's  disgusting  to  see  a  fellow  such  a  coward." 

"But  did  he  suspect  how  much  your  cousin  knew?" 

"  He  supposed  she  might  have  noticed  some  telling 
trifle;  but  nothing  to  the  purpose." 

"  You  made  a  hit  there.  I  believe  it  would  almost  kill 
her  to  give  her  evidence.  Do  you  mean  to  show  up 
Hawk  on  his  own  account  afterwards?" 

"No;  I  hate  the  whole  thing,  I'm  not  an  informer,  and 
besides  it's  too  late  to  right  their  wrongs.  If  they  want 
to  revenge  themselves,  they  may  do  it  in  their  own  time, 
without  me.  I've  secured  all  I  want.  Now  I'll  see  you 
to  the  end  of  your  affair,  on  one  condition." 

"What's  that?  But  anything  you  like;  I'm  in  your 
debt,  if  ever  man  was. " 

"Only  that  Grace's  name  is  never  mentioned  between 
us  any  more." 

"Oh,  but,  my  dear  fellow!  I  must  know  whether  she 
believes  what  I  wrote  her  or  not  I  don't  want  her  to 


1 46  YESTERDAY. 

think  worse  of  me  than  I  am;  she  is  too  like  you  after  all 
for  me  to  stand  that.  Ask  her  for  the  letter;  make 
her  every  apology  you  can;  no  excuses  though,  for  there 
are  none  possible  from  me  to  her." 

"Well,  if  she  listens  to  me,  I  will  tell  you.  Otherwise, 
I  had  better  say  nothing  about  it." 

"I  suppose  so.  Anyhow,  you're  only  too  good  a 
friend. " 

"  Perhaps;  but  I  haven't  the  impudence  to  lend  a  hand 
to  society  in  punishing  you." 

"Society's  not  so  much  better  than  I  am,  that  it  should 
have  the  right." 

"You  may  help  yourself  with  that,  I  suppose,  after  all, 
— if  you  can." 

' '  Hasn't  it  helped  you  ? " 

"No." 

"I  wonder  what  you  would  think  if  the  countess  had 
treated  you  better." 

"Ask  yourself  that  in  ten  years'  time." 

"  But  won't  Hawk  play  you  some  dirty  trick  by  way  of 
return  for  your  defense  of  me?" 

"  He's  too  well  frightened;  besides  I  shall  be  out  of  his 
reach  abroad.  I'm  going  to  Europe  to  look  after  my 
nephew  Tony." 

' '  Who  on  earth  is  he  ?  I'm  sure  I  never  heard  of 
him  before." 


YESTERDAY.  147 

"Why,  I  had  a  sister  Mary  once,  and  we  were  fond 
of  each  other  too;  but  she  would  marry.  My  brother- 
in-law,  John  Waveney,  was  a  good  fellow  in  his  way, 
only  it  was  a  crotchety,  impracticable  one.  He  was  a 
mining  engineer,  and  might  have  done  very  well  if  he 
had  stuck  to  that;  but  he  strayed  off  into  inventions 
which  never  could  be  made  to  work,  and  talked  Mary 
over  in  throwing  away  her  money  on  them.  I  objected 
to  that  last  proceeding;  so  we  quarreled;  she  took  his 
side,  and  that  parted  us.  She's  dead  this  seven  years, 
poor  thing  !  Tony  was  their  only  child.  I  liked  the 
little  fellow;  but  after  his  mother's  death  Waveney  would 
never  let  me  see  him.  To  be  sure,  for  a  good  while  I 
wasn't  the  best  of  company;  still,  what  harm  would  I 
have  done  such  a  baby?  He  can't  be  more  than  eigh- 
teen even  now.  In  two  years  Waveney  married  again, 
picking  up  the  most  insignificant  little  creature  possible 
for  his  second  wife;  then  he  went  abroad  to  economize, 
and  ended  by  dying  of  consumption  last  March.  As 
soon  as  I  heard  he  hadn't  long  to  live,  I  wrote  and 
offered  to  take  care  of  Tony.  The  answer  was  a  flat 
refusal,  with  an  assurance  that  the  boy  was  fully  pro- 
vided for.  But  now  Mrs.  Waveney  sends  me  an  in- 
coherent jumble  of  woes  in  the  form  of  a  letter  from 
Germany.  I  gather  from  it  that  her  husband  was  mis- 
informed concerning  my  character,  which  later  and  truer 


148  YESTERDAY. 

reports,  'and  especially  the  very  kind  and  gentlemanly 
letter  preserved  among  poor  John's  papers,'  show  to  be 
no  bad  one;  that  she  is  left  quite  destitute,  with  three 
children  of  her  own  to  bring  up;  that  her  relations  may 
be  expected  to  help  them,  but  of  course  have  no  inter- 
est in  her  step-son;  and  that  Tony  is  at  a  German  School 
of  Mines,  very  unhappy  and  discontented,  and  without  a 
whole  suit  of  clothes  or  a  decent  pair  of  shoes;  therefore, 
if  I  would  reconsider —  So  I  have  business  cut  out  for 
me,  and  must  try  hot  to  blunder  it.  Once  you  go  West, 
I'm  off  for  the  other  side." 

"You're  always  helping  on  somebody." 
"Badly  enough,  I'm  afraid.  This  time  I  must  do 
my  best;  he  shan't  turn  out  as  good-for-nothing  as  I 
am,  whatever  happens.  But  to  finish  with  your  affairs 
first —  Oh,  I  must  tell  you;  Benson  is  very  much  dis- 
turbed. He  came  to  see  me  last  night,  in  a  suspicious 
frame  of  mind,  evidently  trying  to  find  out  if  I  thought 
you  .likely  to  give  him  the  slip.  'What  for  does  he  get 
himself  into  such  a  scrape  just  now?  But  he  never  was 
the  least  bit  of  a  practical  man.'  Then  with  a  burst  of 
confidence,  or  a  deep  design  of  making  an  impression 
on  your  feelings  through  me,  'I  can't  do  without  him; 
if  he  goes  back  on  me,  I  may  as  well  shut  up  shop. ' " 
"  He  has  had  experiences,  poor  fellow;  but  so  have  I; 
and  we  shan't  give  each  other  any  new  ones,  I  think." 


YESTERDAY.  149 

They  talked  together  for  some   time   longer;   at   last 

Tyne  said,    "I  must  be  off." 

"Can  you  get  back  to  town  to-night?" 

"Yes,  and  I  must.     Good-bye;  you  shall  hear  from 

me  soon." 


CHAPTER  X. 

was  on  the  watch  for  Tyne  the  morning  after 
^J  his  conversation  with  Harry;  Mrs.  Bishop  had  no- 
tified her  that  her  cousin  had  something  to  tell.  The 
elder  lady  lingered  a  few  minutes  in  the  little  parlor«after 
Tyne's  arrival;  but  as  in  her  presence  the  others  avoided 
the  subject  which  she  knew  they  meant  to  speak  of,  she 
withdrew.  Of  course,  she  assured  herself,  she  should 
hear  the  whole  from  Grace  afterwards;  though  it  must 
be  owned  her  niece  had  hitherto  refused  to  discuss  the 
affair  with  her. 

As  she  went  out,  Tyne  drew  nearer  Grace,  studying 
her  looks  anxiously. 

' '  When  can  you  show  me  Sundon's  letter  ? "  he  began. 

"I  have  it  here.  What  has  he  told  you?  The  truth, 
I  wonder?  As  I  understand  the  matter,  there  is  not  a 
falser  man  to  be  found.  What  excuses  does  he  make  ? " 

"  He  bid  me  tell  you  he  had  none;  only  apologies  to 
you. " 

"And  what  to  the  Langs?" 


YESTEKDAY.  151 

"Grace,  can  you  not  give  me  your  own  story?" 

"I  do  so  hate  it;  but  I  must  have  your  advice;  nobody 
else  can  help  me,  for  who  else  could  understand?"  "  Un- 
less," she  mentally  added,  "one  to  whom  I  could  not 
apply,  even  were  he  here." 

"Or  if  you  choose,  only  tell  me  what  happened  after 
Sundon  left;  he  has  made  no  secret  to  me  of  the  way  he 
behaved  to  you,  and  upon  my  word,  he  is  very  thor- 
oughly ashamed  of  that.  If  he  was  not,  I  shouldn't  have 
a  word  to  say  to  you  about  it" 

"You  believe  him?" 

"Yes,  I  do!  and  I  think  you  will  in  the  end.  But 
now,  what  follows?" 

"  Once  he  had  gone,  I  think  Mr.  Lang  and  Mrs.  Brink 
were  to  blame.  They  frightened  Thyra  so  between  them, 
her  mother  threatening  her  with  the  next  world,  and  her 
husband  with  this,  that  I  thought  she  would  lose  her  rea- 
son; if  indeed  she  has  any,  which  I  am  not  sure  of." 

"Why,   Lang  said  as  much  himself." 

"Poor  man,  if  he  had  believed  that  sooner!  I  spoke 
at  last  to  the  mother;  but  she  did  not  take  it  in  good  part 
'Oh,  she  knows  well  enough;  she's  as  sly  as  a  cat,  and 
as  smart'  Such  a  mistake !  I  never  myself  saw  so  open 
and  so  weak  a  creature;  it  is  a  cowardly  thing  of  a  man 
to  mislead  any  one  so  defenseless." 

"You  are  speaking  of  my  friend,  Grace." 


152  YESTERDAY. 

"Why  need  he  be  your  friend  any  longer?" 

"Well,  what  else?" 

"She  really  tried  to  forget,  poor  thing.  She  would 
come  over  and  sit  with  me,  bring  her  work,  and  talk  of  the 
people  at  the  hotel,  or  her  husband's  plans  for  next  year; 
but  after  a  while  she  would  put  me  questions  as  to  what 
had  become  of  such  a  woman  who  had  had  a  scandal  in 
her  life,  or  what  I  believed  would  happen  to  such  a  one 
after  death;  then  she  would  break  down  and  cry.  Still  I 
hoped  the  matter  would  wear  itself  out,  when  unluckily 
Mr.  Lang  had  to  go  to  Baltimore  on  business;  Mrs.  Brink 
thought  so  hot  a  journey — it  was  in  those  two  or  three 
sudden  sunstroke  days  we  had — would  be  too  much  for 
Thyra,  but  that  she  must  have  change  of  air  now  notwith- 
standing. So  those  two  started  for  the  White  Mountains 
together,  Mr.  Lang,  who  left  here  the  day  before,  plan- 
ning to  join  them  later.  Thyra  herself  did  not  know 
what  was  to  come  of  the  trip,  I  am  sure.  She  did  not 
want  to  go. " 

"Then  how  can  you  suspect  Sundon  as  you  do?" 

"He  must  have  been  on  the  look-out  for  her." 

"In  Maine!  Or  do  you  suppose  he  had  any  way  of 
communication  with  her?" 

"Nothing  could  have  reached  her;  she  was  too  closely 
watched.  But  it  was  no  use.  Mrs.  Brink  returned  quite 
beside  herself,  and  I  had  to  comfort  her  as  best  I 


YESTEKDAY.  153 

could — that  is,  to  listen  to  her  sorrow,  for  there  was  no 

hope  to  give.  Soon  after,   this  letter  came." 

She  took  it  from  her  work-basket  and  handed  it  to 

him,  watching  his  face  while  he  read. 

"  DEAR  Miss  DELAHAY, — You  probably  have  heard  that  I  have 
failed  to  keep  my  promise  to  you;  but  you  must  not  believe  that 
I  intended  or  planned  to  fail;  I  had  no  such  thought  when  we 
parted.  Though  circumstances  proved  at  last  too  strong  for  me, 
yet  I  shall  not  yet  entirely  break,  my  word.  I  told  you  I  should 
not  forsake  Thyra  if  she  were  mine;  and  I  will  not;  your  hearing 
of  her  as  Mrs.  Sundon  is  only  a  question  of  time. 

"  I  have  no  words  to  tell  you  how  I  regret  my  conduct  towards 
you,  and  if  your  cousin  Mont  thinks  it  requires  severe  notice,  I 
shall  not  dispute  his  judgment,  and  am  ready  to  meet  it.  But 
I  assure  you  that  if  you  wish  to  seem  ignorant  of  this  affair  of 
mine,  I  shall  do  my  utmost  to  second  you  in  that.  As  far  as  it 
depends  on  me,  your  name  shall  not  be  brought  before  the  pub- 
lic. Please  show  this  to  Mont;  he  will  take  any  steps  you  re- 
quire, 1  am  sure.  Yours  truly, 

"  HARRY  SUNDON." 

"Well,  Grace, "said  Tyne,  "what  more  can  we  expect, 
under  the  circumstances  ? " 

"Does  it  please  you?  I  thought  it  was  too  absurd. 
He  knows  I  should  not  ask  you  to  fight  a  duel,  or  to 
knock  him  down  in  the  street.  But  I  ought  to  be  very 
much  obliged  to  him  because  he  is  afraid  to  call  me  as 
a  witness,  ought  not  I?" 


154  YKSTRRDAY. 

"Don't  be  so  bitter.  You  have  not  seen  him  since. 
I  have.  He  is  only  telling  the  truth  when  he  says  he 
meant  to  keep  his  word.  He  really  would  have,  but 
for  a  perfectly  accidental  meeting;  and  if  he  failed  in 
the  main  point,  you  see  he  will  still  be  as  honest  as 
he  can  in  the  present  state  of  the  case." 

"I  am  not  sure  that  that  makes  it  any  better.  It 
leaves  him  still  with  a  debt  to  Mr.  Lang  that  he  can 
never  settle, — yes,  and  to  Thyra  too." 

"At  least  do  not  think  he  was  deceiving  you  at  first. 
He  has  quite  enough  to  repent  of  without  your  charging 
him  with  that.'' 

"You  know  men.  I  believe.  But  what  am  I  to  do 
with  my  information?  I  feel  as  if  either  to  speak  or 
be  silent  was  treacherous." 

"You  have  a  right  to  silence,  Grace;  you  can  tell 
nothing  that  is  not  already  known  to  others;  there  are 
plenty  of  witnesses  without  you;  and  I  have  settled  that 
you  shall  not  be  called." 

"  Dear  Mont !  you  have  saved  me  a  hard  trial  indeed." 

"Now  for  that,  promise  me  that  you  will  believe  what 
I  tell  you  of  Sundon." 

"I  could  easier  think  you  were  taken  in  by  his  clever 
acting. " 

"I  understand  him  too  well  for  that.  He  is  only 
too  much  himself  off  the  boards." 


YESTERDAY.  155 

"  If  you  could  say  he  repented  at  all-— but  he  is 
not  that  kind  of  man.  And  that  being  so,  why  do 
you  still  stand  by  him?" 

"Grace,  I  think  you  know  no  more  of  my  life  than 
the  outline  everybody  has  heard,  and  certainly  I  do 
not  mean  to  tell  you  more;  but  I  feel  myself  to  have 
been  a  worse  man  than  he — " 

"Once,  perhaps,  but  not  to-day.  Now,  you  might 
surely  make  yourself  free  of  him." 

"He  has  no  hold  on  me  unless  I  choose.  I  might 
leave  him  to  himself,  except  that  it  would  be  too  unjust  of 
me,  and  at  this  time  of  all  others;  so  I  will  not" 

"Does  he  think  you  approve  of  him?" 

"No,  for  I  told  him  the  contrary,  more  frankly,  I  am 
afraid,  than  was  fair  on  my  part.  And  he  does  feel 
ashamed  of  his  behavior  towards  you." 

"And  towards  Thyra  he  thinks  he  is  not  to  blame? 
He  looks  on  that  as  an  everyday  matter?  He  says  he 
loves  her,  yet  his  love  makes  him  only  the  more  willing 
to  disgrace  her,  and  that  before  the  world?" 

"There  will  not  be  a  public  trial,   Grace." 

"But  the  public  will  know  the  result  and  visit  it  on 
her.  You  are  strange  creatures,  you  men;  I  would 
rather  put  half  the  world  between  any  one  I  loved  and 
me  than  bring  that  one  so  low." 

"  Yes,  you  haven't  any  idea  what  love  is,  good  or  bad — 


156  YESTERDAY. 

what  a  power,  what  a  force,  to  draw  and  compel  two  dis- 
tant people  to  the  same  place,  two  strangers  to  intimacy, 
two  quiet  souls  to  extremes,  two  hot  ones  to  one  fire.  You 
have  been  sister  and  friend  to  me,  but  whom  have  you  ever 
loved?  I  don't  blame  you  for  refusing  Corbin;  he  was 
not  enough  of  a  man  for  you;  but  you're  just  as  cool  to 
everybody.  I  should  like  you  once  to  feel  your  heart 
beat  quick  for  some  one's  coming  and  going — Why! 
Am  I  wrong?  I  did  not  know,  dear,  believe  me  !  You 
have  kept  your  secret  only  too  well." 

Grace,  overtaxed  and  worn  with  emotion  and  recollec- 
tion, had  burst  into  tears;  those  bitter  tears  that  are  no 
relief,  only  added  pain. 

' '  I  meant  no  one  ever  should  know !  "  she  said. 

"Why  not?  No  love  you  can  feel  would  be  anything 
but  honor  to  you  and  the  man.  Don't  make  yourself 
wretched  by  distrusting  him  either;  every  one  has  not  so 
much  against  him  as  Sundon  and  I;  some  are  better  than 
others,  believe  me,  and  you  are  keen-sighted  enough  to 
know  which." 

' '  Yes,  I  am  sure.  The  other  day,  when  the  very  sky 
seemed  to  fall  on  me,  I  could  not  tell;  but  now  I 
can." 

"At  all  events,  you  go  with  the  Romaines?" 

"Yes,  and  I  am  very  glad  to.  They  have  always  been 
such  good  friends  to  me.  Little  Helen  has  rather  grown 


YESTERDAY.  157 

out  of  my  knowledge,  but  she  is  prettier  and  fonder  of  me 
than  ever;  and  once  we  are  settled  in  Texas — " 

"Why,  I  hoped,  now  the  Major's  leave  was  up,  they 
were  coming  back  to  'Fort  Hamilton  for  good.  What 
does  he  mean  by  carrying  you  off  into  the  wilderness?" 

' '  He  is  ordered  to  San  Antonio,  which  people  say  is  a 
pleasant  post;  and  since  Mrs.  Romaine  has  come  in  for 
her  great-uncle's  money,  they  will  be  able  to  live  very 
comfortably." 

"  It  seems  as  if  you  were  going  to  the  moon,  to  me." 

"Why,  when  you  are  abroad,  what  difference  does  it 
make  where  I  am  on  this  side  ? " 

"Unless  it  should  separate  you  from  your  lover." 

"Mine  !  that  is  too  much  to  say.  I  know  he  cannot 
care  for  me;  he  is  as  far  from  me  in  his  thoughts  as  in 
miles  and  hours." 

"  He  will  love  you  yet,  Grace;  I  am  sure,  if  you  only  let 
him.  Do  I  know  him?" 

"  Hush,  aunt  is  coming  back,  she  must  not  hear.  All 
we  have  said  to-day  must  be  between  ourselves." 

"Now,"  thought  Tyne,  "who  is  it?  Belden,  perhaps. 
Does  he  deserve  her  love,  I  wonder  ?  I  might  set  Harry 
to  finding  out  about  him  in  San  Francisco —  No.  We 
had  best  not  meddle  with  Grace's  affairs;  she  understands 
them,  and  they  ought  to  be  left  sacred  to  her." 

That  evening  Tyne  received  a  note,  requesting  him  to 


158  YESTERDAY. 

come  to  a  certain  number  in  a  street  where  he  was  not  in 
the  habit  of  visiting;  "  Hannah  Brink"  was  the  signature. 
In  a  forlorn  little  parlor  he  found  Thyra's  mother,  who 
seemed  the  more  to  be  pitied  that  her  appearance  in  no 
way  reminded  one  of  her  daughter.  He  would  gladly 
have  given  her  some  of  his  own  composure;  the  stiff  man- 
ner with  which  she  armed  herself  was  plainly  a  feeble  de- 
fense against  her  own  agitation. 

"Mr.  Tyne,  I  am  informed  you  are  in  Mr.  Sundon's 
confidence,"  she  began. 

"That  is  quite  true,   Mrs.   Brink." 

"Of  course  then  you  can  tell  me  what  he  intends  in 
regard  to  my  daughter." 

"He  means  to  marry  her  as  soon  as  she  is  divorced 
from  her  present  husband." 

"Why,  Mr.  Hawk  assured  me  that  he  certainly  would 
not  do  that." 

"Mr.  Hawk  knows  nothing  of  his  plans;  I  know  them 
all." 

"I  thought  that  possible,  so  I  took  the  liberty  of 
sending  for  you.  Would  you  kindly  wait  a  moment?" 

She  was  gone  some  time.  When  she  returned,  she 
began  again,  "You  may  not  know,  Mr.  Tyne,  that  it 
is  difficult  to  find  a  minister  who  will  perform  a  mar- 
riage ceremony  under  such  circumstances." 

' '  There  are  other  legal  means — 


"  But,  Mr.  Tyne  !  In  all  probability  this  is  the  last 
I  shall  have  to  do  with  my  daughter  in  this  world;  but 
if  she  marries,  her  marriage  must  be — "  she  paused  for 
a  word — "sanctified." 

"Impossible  in  this  case,''  Tyne  thought,  "whatever 
you  do,  poor  woman  !  " 

"I  know  of  a  minister,"  Mrs.  Brink  went  on,  "who 
was  under  obligations  to  my  father,  and  is  willing  to  dis- 
charge them  by  obliging  me.  Only  he  does  not  feel  at 
liberty  to  have  it  very  generally  known. " 

"We  will  be  as  discreet  as  you  please.  Now  as  to 
time  and  place?" 

''When  the  divorce  is  granted,  I  will  fix  an  evening 
and  let  you  know.  This  is  the  house;  I  am  visiting  the 
minister's  wife,  who  is  an  old  friend  of  mine.  But  not 
a  syllable,  I  beg  of  you,  to  any  one  not  concerned. 
Mr.  Lang  thinks  I  have  renounced  my  daughter  alto- 
gether; and  he  is  right.  He  leaves  New  York  soon;  I 
shall  go  with  him  and  keep  house  for  him  wherever  he 
settles;  we  are  alone  in  the  world,  and  he  is  not  likely 
to  marry  again.  But  first  I  must  do  this.  A  mother 
owes  her  children  some  things,  even  when  they  are  lost. " 

"I  understand."  Looking  at  that  worn  face,  Tyne 
felt  bitter  against  Thyra;  yet  at  the  same  time  he  thought, 
"  If  she  means  to  cast  her  daughter  off,  why  should  she 
stop  first  for  a  matter  of  form  ?  If  I  were  Thyra,  I  would 


160'  YRSTF.KDAY. 

be  content  with  what  the  law  can  do;  this  is  not  a  last 
blessing,  but  a  farewell  curse,   that  her  mother  gives." 

Thyra  however  did  not  see  it  so.  In  due  time,  there- 
fore, the  dreary  wedding  party  met  The  minister's  wife, 
the  only  unconcerned  person  present,  was  so  deaf  that  she 
could  not  hear  a  word  that  passed;  and  as  no  explanation 
was  given  her,  and  she  did  not  remember  Thyra,  not 
having  seen  her  since  babyhood,  supposed  that  some 
entire  strangers  had  happened  in  to  be  married  quietly. 
Mrs.  Brink's  cold  and  formal  reception  of  her  daughter 
was  well  calculated  to  keep  up  this  impression.  Thyra, 
in  a  dark  traveling-dress,  silent,  pale,  frightened,  at  once 
clung  to  Harry  and  shrank  from  him;  keeping  close  at 
his  side,  she  did  not  yet  venture  a  familiar  look  or  word 
to  him.  Tyne  happening  to  catch  sight  of  his  own  face 
in  a  looking-glass,  was  startled  at  its  "funeral  air,"  as 
he  said  to  himself;  and  Harry  had  the  gravity  of  a  man 
waiting  for  an  attack  which  he  knows  he  must  endure 
and  cannot  repulse.  The  minister,  little,  old,  and  fee- 
ble, was  so  embarrassed,  notwithstanding  the  almost 
deferential  manner  of  bridegroom  and  bridegroom's 
friend  to  him,  by  their  vigorous  presences  and  their 
composure,  that  he  forgot  the  moral  lecture  he  had 
intended,  and  confined  himself  to  business.  The  wed- 
ding was  soon  over.  Thyra,  holding  her  husband's 
hand,  then  timidly  made  a  step  forward,  saying,  ".Mo- 


YESTERDAY.  l6l 

ther  !  "  Mrs.  Brink,  keeping  her  hands  at  her  side,  kissed 
her  daughter  on  the  forehead,  then  turned  away  and 
walked  out  of  the  room  without  a  word  to  any  one. 
Thyra  stood  trembling  and  shivering  from  that  icy  kiss; 
Harry  thought  she  would  faint,  and  hurried  her  out 
into  the  air.  Tyne  staid  a  few  minutes  longer,  hoping 
Mrs.  Brink  might  give  him  some  word  of  forgiveness 
for  her  daughter;  but  it  was  to  no  purpose. 

The  next  day  Tyne  sailed.  There  was  no  one  he  al- 
ready knew  on  the  steamer;  but  when  Grace  came  with 
two  ladies  of  her  acquaintance, — elderly  people,  shy,  timid, 
and  so  unaccustomed  to  traveling  that  without  her  help 
they  would  hardly  have  found  their  way  on  board, — he 
told  her  he  should  consider  them  under  his  care;  and  in- 
deed they  talked  of  "that  very  polite  young  man"  for 
years  after. 

Grace  herself  had  but  a  few  moments  to  stay,  on  ac- 
count of  her  preparations  for  her  own  journey. 

"Little  sister,"  said  Tyrie,  as  he  walked  to  the  steps 
with  her,  "I  don't  leave  you  as  I  could  wish;  why  are 
you  not  to  be  happy  yet?" 

Her  eyes  had  been  turned  aside  a  moment,  with  a  look 
of  watching  for  some  one  who  never  came,  now  her  fre- 
quent expression;  but  she  brought  them  back  at  once  to 
meet  his,  and  pressed  his  hand  warmly,  saying,  "Dear 
brother  1 "  ( 


1 62  YESTERDAY. 

All  at  once  she  started  back;  Harry  Sundon  stood  be- 
fore them.  He  too  was  still  in  New  York,  and  had  come 
to  see  the  last  he  could  of  Tyne. 

Since  their  conversation  by  the  sea,  Tyne  had  taken 
both  past  and  future  for  granted,  and  served  his  friend 
without  question  or  remark.  Harry  had  meanwhile  rea- 
soned with  himself  that  after  all  he  had  conducted  the  af- 
fair as  openly  as  possible,  and  that  his  marrying  Thyra 
"ought  to  make  it  all  right"  But  that  did  not  protect 
him  from  the  inference  to  be  drawn  from  Tyne's  never 
having  spoken  of  Grace  again.  Now,  in  her  presence, 
seeing  the  instant  change  that  came  over  her,  and  how 
the  affectionate  approachableness  of  her  air  as  she  took 
leave  of  Tyne  vanished  at  sight  of  himself,  Harry  knew 
what  she  thought,  and  felt  that  it  mattered  a  good  deal 
to  him  somehow.  Yet  this  repulse  irritated  him  so, 
that  he  chanced  in  his  anger  on  the  very  way  to  pro- 
voke.a  more  decided  one.  He  came  forward,  smiling, 
his  hand  held  out  to  her. 

"Ah,  Miss  Delahay,  how  do  you  do?  So  glad  to  meet 
you  again." 

Grace  did  not  even  look  at  him;  she  turned  on  her 
heel,  soldier-fashion,  and  left  the  ship  without  another 
word.  Tyne  made  a  step  as  if  to  follow  her. 

"Best  let  her  alone,  Mont,"  said  Harry,  dropping  his 
voice,  and  laying  his  hand  on  his  friend's  arm.  "She 


YESTERDAY.  163 

is  right  enough;  I  shouldn't  have  been  so  easy;  and  peo- 
ple will  notice;  let  her  go.     But  is  she  all  alone  ? " 

' '  She  expected  the  Romaines;  there  they  are.  Are  they 
coming  back  ?  no,  they  are  gone  now.  There's  such  a 
crowd;  let's  get  out  of  it  Come  down  aft,  by  the  wheel, 
we  shall  have  more  room.  There's  plenty  of  time,  and  I 
want  to  see  all  I  can  of  you;  we  mayn't  meet  again  this 
many  a  day." 


CHAPTER    XL 

THE  man  who  knows  how  to  keep  a  hotel  is  very 
likely  to  set  more  than  one  running.  Tyne's  old 
acquaintance  Start,  not  finding  field  enough  for  his  ener- 
gies at  the  house  in  the  Narrows,  had  in  the  course  of 
time  made  an  additional  venture  many  miles  off,  on  the 
south  shore  of  Long  Island.  At  first  a  small  place  fre- 
quented mostly  by  men  who  went  a  blue-fishing,  it  began 
to  grow  popular  in  his  hands  with  other  visitors,  till  he 
found  he  must  enlarge  it.  To  do  so  to  the  best  advan- 
tage, he  had  just  bought  the  strip  of  land  alongside;  a 
poor  barren  field  agriculturally,  but  worth  something  for 
his  purpose.  One  day  in  the  end  of  August,  therefore, 
the  owner  came  over  to  close  the  bargain.  Of  course  he 
must  dine  and  stay  the  night;  that  was  the  thing,  particu 
larly  as — on  the  host's  part — the  sale  had  not  been  ar- 
ranged without  a  good  deal  of  question. 

This  owner  was  Felix  Belden,  returning  to  the  East  for 
the  first  time  after  four  years'  absence.  He  had  lately 
been  advised  that  now  was  the  best  time  to  sell  his  prop- 
erty, but  that  it  had  been  so  mismanaged  that  his  presence 


YESTERDAY.  165 

was  needed.  This  proved  quite  true;  further,  what  with 
arrears  of  taxes  and  assessments  that  had  not  been  duly 
reported,  the  money  realized  from  the  sale  was  not  by  any 
means  enough  to  completely  carry  out  his  old  plans;  par- 
ticularly as  he  must  incur  fresh  expenses  on  his  return 
to  California.  The  San  Francisco  climate  was  too  trying 
for  Florence;  he  had  therefore  decided  to  remove  to  a 
milder  region  in  the  south  of  the  state. 

He  had  not  prospered  greatly  yet;  by  denying  himself 
everything  not  demanded  by  his  profession,  he  had  kept 
his  head  above  water,  and  made  his  sister  as  comfortable 
as  she  would  allow  him;  in  view  of  her  dependence  on 
him,  he  had  not  let  himself  be  tempted  into  any  of  the 
speculations  that  flourished  and  fluctuated  about  them; 
so  at  least  he  did  not  lose  ground;  only  in  his  own  eyes 
he  gained  none.  Florence  had  spoken  out  just  before  he 
started  on  his  journey,  telling  him  plainly  that  Grace 
would  surely  be  content  with  much  less  than  his  visioned 
least,  and  that  if  he  loved  her,  he  might  marry  her  now; 
but  he  was  not  convinced. 

It  fretted  him  to  revisit  the  old  neighborhoods,  little 
better  off  than  when  he  went,  and  with  his  father's  debts 
still  unpaid;  but  worse  yet  was  the  finding  old  places 
empty  of  people  he  cared  to  see,  only  indifferent  faces  re- 
maining. Grace  and  Florence  were  always  steady  corres- 
pondents; but  in  hopes  of  hearing  more,  Felix  had  looked 


1 66  YESTERDAY. 

up  Mrs.  Bishop.  She  was  re-established  in  the  large 
house,  with  more  money,  and  the  companionship  of  a 
shadowy  poor  relation.  The  visit  disappointed  Felix. 
"Grace  does  not  write  very  often,"  said  Mrs.  Bishop;  "she 
has  nothing  to  tell  but  military  matters,  and  she  knows 
they  do  not  interest  me.  She  is  not  likely  to  return  to 
the  East;  the  Romaines  are  very  kind  to  her,  and  they 
may  not  leave  San  Antonio  for  years  yet.  If  she  had  re- 
ceived any  money  from  my  nephew  Monteith's  estate  her 
plans  might  have  been  changed,  but  she  did  not.  His 
will  was  found  only  the  other  day  among  some  old  pa- 
pers; it  divided  his  property  between  Grace  and  my  great- 
nephew,  Tony  Waveney.  But  even  if  we  had  discovered 
it  before,  it  would  have  been  of  no  value,  on  account  of 
Mr.  Goring's  failure,  which  happened  almost  simultane- 
ously with  Monteith's  death.  My  nephew  had  very  fool- 
ishly put  all  his  money  in  that  one  investment,  and  it 
turned  out  that  Mr.  Goring  had  contrived  to  make  away 
with  everything.  He  disappeared  at  once,  and  nothing 
has  ever  been  recovered.  Mr.  Hawk  was  at  one  time 
on  his  track,  in  the  interests  of  other  parties  equally  plun- 
dered; but  was  killed  in  a  railroad  accident,  or  at  least 
found  dead  afterwards  on  the  spot;  there  were  suspicions 
of  murder,  though  no  positive  proof — and  I  imagine  the 
matter  has  been  abandoned  since.  It  has  been  very  un- 
fortunate for  Grace." 


YESTERDAY.  167 

"Surely,"  said  Felix.  He  had  known  Tyne  after  his 
return  from  Europe,  and  for  a  while  feared  him  as  a  pos- 
sible rival.  Now  the  failure  of  the  dead  man's  last  inten- 
tions was  a  curious  and  unexpected  disappointment  to  the 
living.  If  Grace  had  had  this  money,  she  would  have 
been  able  to  marry  where  she  pleased;  yet  it  had  not  been 
so  great  a  sum  as  to  make  the  world  call  her  lover  a  for- 
tune-hunter,— though  Felix  would  have  dared  that,  or 
indeed  anything  but  his  one  fear  of  bringing  her  to  a 
struggling  home  life.  But  Mrs.  Bishop  must  not  suspect 
his  story.  «•/ 

' '  My  nephew  died  very  suddenly,  as  he  was  returning 
from  abroad,"  the  old  lady  went  on;  "it  was  a  ease  of 
unsuspected  heart-disease.  My  worst  fears  for  him,  that 
the  end  would  find  him  totally  unprepared,  were  quite 
realized.  I  am  afraid  too  that  his  influence  on  Tony 
was  a  bad  one;  for  directly  the  boy  was  left  to  himself 
he  went  on  the  stage,  as  perhaps  you  know." 

"I  had  heard  so  much." 

' '  I  wrote  Tony  a  letter  of  advice  and  condolence  on 
his  uncle's  death;  but  it  had  merely  the  effect  that  he 
has  never  come  near  me  since.  Still  we  have  had  a 
little  business  correspondence,  about  Monteith's  papers, 
some  of  which  concerned  my  property.  But  finally  the 
child  has  sent  me  his  wedding-cards  !  I  have  mislaid 
them;  and  I  forget  the  bride's  name;  it  is  not  a  familiar 


168  YESTERDAY. 

one,  to  me  at  least.  If  you  could  procure  me  some 
reliable  information  about  her,  Doctor  Belden,  you 
would  greatly  oblige  me.  I  imagine  that  he  has  married 
beneath  him;  but  if  she  is  respectable,  I  shall  feel  it  my 
duty  to  visit  her." 

' '  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  help  you. " 

"So  absurdly  imprudent  that  he  should  marry  at  all. 
He  has  only  been  on  the  stage  a  year,  and  I  believe 
plays  very  trifling  parts;  how  is  he  to  support  a  family  ? 
It  is  strange  how  many  misfortunes,  we  have  in  our 
connection.  Some  people  do  so  well !  My  old  friend 
Mrs.  Corbin's  son,  for  instance, — to  be  sure,  he  left  Mr. 
Goring  in  good  time." 

"I  used  to  know  Charley  Corbin,  what  has  become 
of  him  ? " 

"Oh,  he's  been  most  fortunate;  he  fell  in  love  with 
a  young  girl  from  St.  Louis,  that  he  met  at  Narragan- 
sett;  her  father,  who  is  very  rich,  took  him  into  his 
business  when  they  married,  and  he  is  very  successful, 
and  very  good  to  his  mother  and  sisters.  The  girls  are 
both  engagQd  now — "  and  she  enlarged  on  their  prospects 
for  some  time. 

Leaving  Mrs.  Bishop,  Felix  had  strayed  down  to  the 
shore,  which  he  found  little  changed.  This  region  was 
sacred  to  Grace  in  his  mind;  but  to  his  great  annoyance, 
the  talk  of  two  passing  strollers  raised  an  association  which 


YESTERDAY.  169 

struck  him  as  insufferably  mean  and  vulgar  in  contrast 
with  her  image.  A  pair  of  young  fellows  were  standing 
on  the  beach,  looking  at  the  Firebrace  house.  "And 
that's  where  Mr.  Sundon  boarded  that  summer,"  said 
one,  as  if  concluding  a  story. 

"Oh,  is  it?"  answered  the  other.  "It  must  have 
looked  nicer  then,  for  anybody  to  stay  there."  The 
house  indeed  was  neglected  and  shabby,  old  Firebrace 
having  died  and  left  a  disputed  will. 

Felix  had  heard  Sundon's  story  as  a  piece  of  gossip, 
after  Benson's  company  had  gone  away  from  San  Fran- 
cisco; stories  traveling  more  slowly  in  those  days  than 
now.  It  had  completed  for  him  his  first  impression  of 
Harry.  They  had  never  met, — poor  hard-worked  Felix 
saw  little  enough  society,  except  medically — but  the  Doc- 
tor knew  Harry  by  sight,  both  on  and  off  the  stage.  The 
theatrical  impression  was  a  pleasant  one;  here  was  real 
art,  that  one  might  be  enthusiastic  about  without  exag- 
geration. Notwithstanding,  Felix  disliked  the  man,  set- 
ting him  down  as  fast,  untrustworthy,  and  self-seeking; 
those  touches  of  refinement  and  generous  feeling  that 
made  his  acting  so  admirable  were  probably  all  studied, 
caught  from  keen  observation  of  others, — poor  Tyne, 
for  instance,  he  who  had  not  been  entirely  bad  by  any 
means,  and  who  perhaps  Grace  was  mourning;  while  it 
was  not  likely  any  woman  worth  thinking  of  would  ever 


170  YESTEKDAY. 

regret  Sundon.  Felix  had  also  had  a  glimpse  of  Thyra, 
but  she  had  impressed  him  little;  she  was  "only  a  beauty," 
he  said.  The  company  had  gone  to  Australia  after  a  while, 
with  a  successful  record;  he  had  not  followed  their  course 
since. 

At  Start's  house  on  the  south  shore,  Felix  thought  he 
had  left  all  this  behind.  His  business  done,  he  sat  in 
his  room  overlooking  the  sea,  finishing  a  letter  to  Flor- 
ence; but  ran  short  of  writing  paper,  and  descended  to 
the  office  to  borrow  a  sheet  It  was  near  tea-time  (the 
house  dined  early,  but  the  tea  was  all  but  a  second  din- 
ner); people  who  had  been  out  on  the  water  came  back 
in  small  parties,  reporting  a  fine  breeze  and  plenty  of  fish. 

"  Has  Mr.  Sundon  got  in  yet,  do  you  know,  Doctor?  " 
Start  inquired  of  Felix,  as  he  gave  him  the  paper.  "  His 
room's  next  yours." 

"I  haven't  seen  him.     Is  he  staying  here?" 

"He  dropped  down  all  of  a  sudden  this  morning,  he 
and  his  wife,  and  were  out  on  the  water  before  you  came. 
Lucky  I  had  a  front  room,  or  they'd  have  been  off  again. 
They  came  here  for  quiet,  and  the  house  is  packed  like 
a  beehive;  a  half-dozen  people  left  at  twelve,  to  be  sure, 
but  the  late  train'll  bring  more  than  enough  to  fill  up, 
I  expect.  He's  turned  more  particular  about  accommo- 
dations than  he  used  to  be  when  he  was  one  of  five  at 
Firebrace's;  to  be  sure,  the  ladies  have  their  fancies,  you 


YESTERDAY.  171 

know.  But  the  sooner  they're  on  shore  now  the  better; 
the  wind's  falling,  and  if  it  comes  up  again  it'll  be  with  a 
thunder-squall.  Do  you  know  Mr.  Sundon,  Doctor  ? " 

"Only  by  sight." 

"I'll  make  you  acquainted,  if  you  like." 

"It's  not  worth  while,  thank  you.  I  must  leave  to- 
morrow; and  if  he  wants  a  quiet  time,  a  stranger  would 
only  bore  him." 

' '  I  guess  he's  hardly  your  style  anyhow,  Doctor;  too 
much  of  the  sporting  man  for  you.  Mr.  Tyne,  now, 
would  have  been  more  your  kind;  plenty  of  go  in  him, 
but  always  the  gentleman.  Not  that  I'm  saying  anything 
against  Mr.  Sundon,  but  they  do  tell  me  he  has  the  dev- 
il's own  temper;  though  I  never  knew  him  get  up  on  his 
ear  when  I  was  round,  I  ought  to  say.  But  I  don't  be- 
lieve he  means  it;  only  he's  one  of  those  unlucky  people 
that  can't  stand  anything  much  to  drink,  the  second  glass 
flies  to  their  heads,  you  know;  hard  lines  for  a  social  man. 
And  Mrs.  Sundon,  how  she's  gone  off!  Nobody  would 
run  away  with  her  now,  poor  thing.  It's  hard  on  such 
a  soft  kind  of  woman  to  have  had  two  men  grabbing  for 
her  that  way,  pulls  her  all  to  pieces.  Miss  Delahay,  Mr. 
Tyne's  cousin  that  was,  was  better  style,  though  never  so 
pretty  to  begin  with.  I  always  wondered  Mr.  Tyne  didn't 
marry  her;  just  as  well  now  though  he  didn't,  to  leave 
her  a  poor  widow." 


172  YESTERDAY. 

This  jumble  of  names  and  recollections  was  unpleas~ 
ing  enough  to  Felix;  he  was  not  sorry  that  the  tea-time 
gong  cut  it  short 

At  tea,  he  found  himself  opposite  three  empty  seats;  in 
a  few  minutes  two  of  them  were  taken  by  people  he  at 
once  recognized  as  the  Sundons.  "Am  I  never  to  get 
away  from  them  ? "  thought  Felix,  impatiently;  then, 
' '  How  foolish  to  take  them  so  seriously  !  They  are  only 
part  of  the  local  curiosities." 

This  last  idea  seemed  to  be  shared  by  the  rest  of  the 
company.  It  was  rather  a  miscellaneous  crowd  that  bor- 
dered the  long  narrow  table;  and  some  of  the  ladies 
seemed  as  if  they  might  have  histories  in  time  to  come; 
this  did  not  prevent  them  from  looking  down  from  a 
higher  plane  at  Mrs.  Sundon,  who  had  already  had  hers. 
From  the  hardly  whispered  remarks  made  among  the  large 
party  on  his  left,  Felix  gathered  that  the  past  season  in 
New  York  had  been  marked  by  professional  success  for 
the  husband  and  social  failure  for  the  wife.  The  men 
regarded  Thyra  with  much  less  of  insolent  admiration 
than  their  stares  had  betokened  in  San  Francisco;  for  she 
had  faded  indeed;  her  eyes  were  heavy  and  downcast,  her 
skin  a  pasty  white,  her  hair  a  much  smaller  coil  than 
formerly.  She  cast  furtive  glances,  alarmed  and  timid, 
along  the  unfriendly  line  of  faces;  or  towards  her  husband, 
as  if  she  wished  his  support,  but  feared  reproof  for  seeking 


YESTERDAY.  173 

it;  then  would  try  to  disguise  her  distress  with  a  forced 
smile.  Harry,  on  his  part,  seemed  equally  unmoved  by 
her  pain  and  the  inquisitive  attention  of  the  company. 
When  silent,  he  looked  a  little  bored;  but  most  of  the 
time  he  kept  up  a  brisk  conversation  with  the  men  near- 
est him, — big  noisy  fellows  of  Goring's  pattern,  who,  as 
Start  would  have  said,  "talked  the  New  York  Clipper 
like  a  minister  talks  the  Bible."  They  kept  each  other 
in  a  roar  of  laughter;  Harry  amused  himself  and  them  by 
imitations  of  people  they  knew,  by  new  variations  on  well- 
worn  sporting  men's  themes,  by  pretenses  at  being 
shocked  when  anything  specially  cynical  was  said,  made 
in  the  form  of  mock  disclaimers  really  more  intense  in 
cynicism  than  the  original  speech.  He  was  the  only 
clever  one  of  the  set;  but  the  others  aired  their  dull  wits 
with  great  complacency.  The  largest  and  loudest  of 
them  all,  who  sat  beside  Felix,  occasionally  leaned  over 
the  table  and  addressed  some  trifling  remark  to  Thyra; 
she  would  reply  inaudibly,  and  he  would  make  her  repeat 
her  answer.  After  this  had  happened  three  or  four  times, 
she  suddenly  rose  and  left  the  room. 

"What's  the  matter  with  your  wife,  Harry?"  said 
Felix's  neighbor. 

"Oh,  she's  got  a  headache,"  Harry  answered  carelessly; 
"she  always  has  before  a  thunder-shower;  it's  as  good  as 
a  barometer." 


174  YESTERDAY. 

"Yes,  mighty  convenient!"  And  no  more  was  said 
of  her,  only  Felix  thought,  ' '  Poor  woman  !  whatever 
wrong  she  did  her  former  husband,  this  one  is  likely 
to  return  with  interest.  " 

People  began  before  long  to  leave  the  table;  but  Harry 
and  his  companions  lingered;  Harry  took  to  telling  stories 
that  were  hard  not  to  laugh  at,  and  yet  were  flavored  with 
quite  too  coarse  salt,  notwithstanding  their  wit.  At  the 
same  time,  he  was  carefully  watching  Felix,  as  if  he 
thought  him  some  acquaintance  he  ought  to  recognize, 
but  could  not  recall.  This  soon  struck  the  Doctor  as 
too  much;  he  put  an  end  to  it  by  going  away  to  finish 
his  letter. 

His  writing  done,  Felix  put  out  his  light,  not  to 
draw  mosquitoes,  and  sat  for  how  long  he  could  not 
tell,  thinking  of  past  and  future;  but  most  of  all  of 
Grace.  The  rising  moon  was  struggling  with  the 
heavy  low-flying  ragged  clouds.  Felix  vaguely  con- 
sidered whether  he  would  go  down  to  the  beach  to 
see  the  coming  shower  better;  but  after  all  did  not 
move.  Suddenly  he  was  startled  by  a  rough,  bantering 
voice,  saying,  ' '  Now,  Thyra,  what  possessed  you  to  make 
such  a  fool  of  yourself  this  evening?  Tell  me  that." 

The  speaker  seemed  to  be  at  Felix's  elbow;  yet  no 
one  had  been  in  the  room  the  moment  before.  Felix 
turned  his  head,  and  found  the  explanation;  he  was 


YESTERDAY.  175 

sitting-  close  to  a  door  which  led  into  the  next  room; 
being  ill-fitted  and  having  sunk,  there  was  a  space  at 
the  top  of  it  through  which  the  sounds  came  distinctly. 
In  a  breath  the  plaintive  answer  followed:  "I  had  such 
a  headache;  you  know  I  had,  Harry/' 

"That  doesn't  matter.  A  woman  of  the  world  knows 
how  to  disguise  a  headache  when  she  is  in  a  public  place; 
and  my  wife  must  be  a  woman  of  the  world,  if  she  wants 
to  go  about  with  me." 

"  Now  don't  begin  scolding.  Suppose  any  one  should 
hear  ! '' 

' '  Who  can  ?  This  room's  on  the  corner  of  the  house, 
and  anybody  on  the  other  side  of  us  would  be  sure  to 
show  a  light  Nobody  but  you  wants  to  sit  in  the  dark 
with  the  June-bugs." 

"It's  too  late  for  those  horrid  things.  Well,  if  you 
are  going  to  be  cross,  I  hope  nobody's  there,  and  I  wish 
you  had  staid  down-stairs, "  in  a  quivering  voice. 

Felix,  though  with  some  compunction,  decided  not 
to  make,  his  presence  known;  a  plan  he  had  reason  not 
to  regret 

"In  four  years,"  Sundon  went  on,  "you  might  get 
used  to  things." 

"I  couldn't  help  it" 

"None  of  your  little  fibs,  my  dear;  don't  waste  your 
ammunition  on  me;  I  understand  you  too  well  to  make 


Ij6  YRSTRKDAY. 

it  worth  your  while.  You  won't  face  the  notice  you  and 
I  have  invited  by  our  way  of  living.  You  worried  and 
fretted  me  away  from  Newport,  just  as  I  was  beginning 
to  enjoy  myself,  and  got  me  into  this  dull  little  hole, — 
a  damned  dull  life  we  shall  have  of  it  here,  I  can  let 
you  know, — and  now  you're  just  as  bad  as  before." 

"I  never  would  have  asked  you  to  come  if  I  had  known 
what  kind  of  a  place  it  was.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  ?  " 

"  How  could  I  ?  The  house  has  changed  since  my  day. 
You  don't  mind  OIK  old  friend  Start,  at  least,  do  you  ? " 

"Yes.  He  doesn't  treat  me  properly.  The  way  he 
looks  at  me  and  talks  to  me,  one  would  think  I  was  a 
naughty  child." 

"So  you  were  when  he  knew  you  first." 

"Harry!" 

"What's  the  matter  now?  One  mayn't  touch  you  with 
a  feather.  I  haven't  called  any  hard  names,  though  there 
are  plenty  in  English;  or  if  you'd  rather,  French  or  Italian: 
I  picked  up  a  lot  of  Italian  once  from  some  opera-people, 
and  I  haven't  forgotten  it  all  yet." 

"Harry,  you've  been  drinking,  that's  what  makes  you 
so  cross.  And  you  know  you  oughtn't  to,  it's  so  bad  for 
you." 

"What  else  can  a  man  do  in  a  place  like  this,  with 
such  a  thick-headed  gang  of  fellows  for  company  as  we 
had  to-night  ?  a  man  that's  been  hard-worked  all  winter 


YESTERDAY.  177 

and  spring,  and  plagued  by  his  wife  all  summer  ?  Well, 
suppose  I  have  had  a  drop  too  much,  you  can't  say  I'm 
really  drunk.  Perhaps  you'd  like  it  better  if  I  was." 

"You  know  I  wouldn't" 

"Like  that  Australian  you  remember?  Nice  fellow! 
I  thrashed  him  pretty  well,  I  believe.  You  might  be 
more  grateful;  but  it's  like  you.  Much  of  a  bonne  camarade 
you  are  !  I  knew  when  I  first  saw  you  you  were  a  little 
dunce,  only  good  to  listen  to  what  one  said  and  to  look 
pretty;  but  that  you  would  turn  out  such  a  fretful  whin- 
ing thing,  without  the  courage  of  a  fly,  not  able  to  carry 
out  what  you  began — " 

"What  more  can  I  do,   Harry?" 

"Be  bold  and  face  the  world  as  if  you  didn't  care  a 
continental  for  it.  Laugh  and  talk  with  whoever  comes; 
snub  people  that  snub  you,  and  never  show  it  if  you  are 
hurt" 

"I  tried  that  last  winter." 

"  Did  you?  You  were  too  half-hearted  about  it,  then; 
never  brave,  never  sure  of  yourself.  You  behaved  as  if 
you  were  my  mistress,  not  my  wife." 

"Those  women  are  brazen  enough." 

"They  know  how  to  play  their  part;  and  you  won't 
even  learn  yours.  I'm  ashamed  of  you.  After  all  I've 
done  for  you,  you  might  show  you  appreciated  it" 

"What  have  you  done  for  me  so  much?     To  make  me 


178  YESTERDAY. 

wretched  just  to  please  yourself?  was  that  what  you  prom- 
ised me  ?  " 

' '  Do  you  mean  I'm  not  a  man  of  my  word  ?  I  think 
I  am,  and  better  too,  if  anything.  I  never  need  have 
married  you;  I  might  have  left  you  any  time  I  chose,  and 
who  could  have  called  me  to  account  ? " 

"Mr.  Tyne.  He  thought  you  owed  me  something, 
and — " 

"What  makes  you  speak  of  the  dead?  It's  unlucky; 
stop  it" 

"He  was  always  so  good  to  me." 

"Yes,  out  of  politeness;  but  all  the  time  he  despised 
you,  and  thought  you  weren't  good  enough  for  me.  Be- 
fore we  ran  away,  he  wanted  me  to  marry  his  cousin 
Grace.  I'm  glad  enough  I  didn't;  I  couldn't  bear  her, 
with  her  cold  heart  and  her  virtuous  airs;  she  would  have 
kept  me  tied  down  tight,  or  made  a  hypocrite  of  me;  but 
you're  just  as  bad  in  your  own  way." 

"Oh,   what's  that  noise?" 

At  the  mention  of  Grace,  Felix  had  started,  pushing 
back  his  chair  unconsciously. 

"Rats,  most  likely,"  Harry  remarked. 

"Oh,  are  there  rats  in  this  house?  I  should  die  if 
I  saw  one." 

"  Dozens  of  them.  But  you're  tougher  than  that;  now 
don't  make  me  wish  you  weren't" 


YESTERDAY.  179 

"Oh!" 

"I  could  do  without  you  pretty  well;  don't  you  make  it 
easier  for  me." 

"What  do  you  mean?  You  promised  you  would 
never  send  me  back  to  my  mother,  and  now  she's  dead. 
You  know  you  can't  break  our  marriage — you  know — " 

"Look  here,  Thyra;  I've  been  really  a  good  husband 
to  you,  better  than  many  men  would  have  been;  but  if 
you  go  on  making  yourself  ridiculous  and  me  uncomfort- 
able,— why  then,  when  I  want  any  woman's  company,  it 
won't  be  yours." 

' '  You  mean  you've  fallen  in  love  with  some  other 
woman  ?  " 

' '  Not  yet;  and  I'm  not  very  likely  to,  after  my  experi- 
ence; still  even  a  man  of  sense  don't  always  know  how  he 
will  act  in  a  given  case;  and  I  have  had  to  confess  myself 
a  fool  in  that  line  more  than  once." 

"Do  you  love  me  at  all  any  more?" 

"Not  a  great  deal;  perhaps  I  never  shall  again  as  you 
understand  that  sentiment.  But  if  you  only  choose,  we 
may  get  along  tolerably  well  in  future,  now  we've  once 
had  it  out  together.  It  all  depends  on  you;  keep  up 
your  spirits,  and  I'll  keep  my  temper;  then  if  we  don't 
care  much  about  each  other,  at  least  we  shall  have  peace." 

' '  I  wish  I  was  dead  !  I  wish  I  had  died  long,  long 
ago,  when  I  was  a  girl  !  Or  when  you  loved  me  and 


l8o  YESTERDAY. 

went  away, — that  would  have  been  the  time.  But  I'll 
die  yet,  and  you  shall  be  sorry  for  it  too." 

' '  If  you  always  were  the  way  you  are  now,  I  don't 
think  I  should.  If  you  want  to  be  my  torment,  you 
can  plague  me  most  by  living.  But  I  know  you;  to- 
morrow you'll  be  as  sweet  as  honey  to  me  again.  Only 
stay  so,  if  you  want  me  not  to  get  too  tired  of  you. 
Now  let  me  have  a  nap.  I'm  sleepy.  After  that  we'll 
go  down-stairs  and  see  if  anybody  I  know  came  by  the 
late  train." 

Nothing  more  was  said;  but  Felix  now  felt  obliged 
still  to  listen.  The  despairing  tone  of  Thyra's  voice  in 
the  latter  part  of  the  conversation  had  alarmed  him;  he 
was  sure  that  she  would  try  to  do  herself  some  harm, 
and  that  her  husband  would  not  watch  to  prevent  it. 
Soon  Harry's  heavy  breathing  told  he  was  asleep.  Then 
Thyra,  moving  cautiously,  stole  to  her  door,  opened  it, 
and  went  out  along  the  hall.  As  soon  as  he  heard  her 
steps  descending  the  back  stairs,  Felix  slipped  out  and 
followed  her. 

Along  one  side  of  the  hotel  ran  a  road,  which  led 
by  many  turns  to  the  rather  distant  railroad  station. 
Near  the  house  a  shady  lane  struck  off,  at  the  end  of 
which  was  a  little  pond,  not  too  shallow  to  drown  any 
one  who  wished.  It  could  be  seen,  even  in  the  dark- 
ness which  had  now  fallen,  gleaming  faintly  under  the 


YESTERDAY.  l8l 

swamp  willows.  Thyra  took  her  way  thither,  as  Felix 
had  expected;  she  had  noticed  the  water  as  she  passed 
by  in  arriving,  and  she  remembered  it  now.  He  fol- 
lowed her,  keeping  in  the  shadows.  She  never  looked 
back.  The  cart-track  led  into  the  pond;  she  walked 
straight  on.  He  hastened  his  steps;  she  heard  him, 
and  threw  herself  forward  on  her  face;  but  he  caught 
her  as  she  fell.  She  struggled  desperately  with  him, 
but  he  held  her  fast  and  brought  her  to  the  firm  ground. 
"  Why  don't  you  let  me  alone?"  she  cried.  "What 
do  you  stop  me  for  ?  Who  are  you,  that  you  won't  let 
me  die  in  peace  ? " 

"It  is  not  your  time  yet,  Mrs.  Sundon." 
"What  do  you  know  about  it?  Get  away.  Yes,  I 
am  Mrs.  Sundon,  and  I  was  Mrs.  Lang,  and  I  always 
shall  be  the  most  miserable  woman  on  earth,  and  you 
won't  let  me  make  an  end;  for  I  tell  you  it  would  be 
one,  no  matter  what  you  ministers  think.  The  Lord 
would  give  me  one  day's  rest  in  my  grave,  whatever 
came  next" 

"I  am  not  a  minister;  I  am  a  doctor." 
"That's  just  as  bad.  You're  all  alike;  one  thinks  he 
understands  people's  souls,  and  one  their  bodies,  but 
neither  of  them  do  any  good.  What  use  are  they  all 
indeed?  All  the  ministers  that  came  to  my  mother's 
house  taught  me  nothing  to  keep  me  from  going  wrong. 


1 82  YESTERDAY. 

All  the  doctors  didn't  save  mo  my  children.  I've  lost 
four  now — all  I  had — none  left  me.  And  you  must 
come  and  interfere.  Oh,  do  let  me  go! — do  let  me 
die  ! — do,  do  !  " 

She  would  have  fallen  on  her  knees  before  him,  if  he 
had  not  held  her  up.  A  last  ray  of  moonlight,  breaking 
through  the  clouds  and  between  the  thick  willows,  struck 
on  his  face,  and  showed  it  to  her,  pitying  and  kind. 

"If  you  could  make  things  right  between  my  husband 
Ham-  Sundon  and  me,"  she  felt  moved  to  say,  "you 
might  stop  me;  but  I  know  you  can't." 

"Let  me  try." 

"No,  you  never  can  now.  He'd  find  out  what  I've 
meant  to  do,  and  he'd  never  forgive  me.  Perhaps  he'd 
put  me  in  an  asylum  for  a  madwoman;  perhaps  he  would 
drive  me  really  mad —  You  don't  know  what  cruel  things 
he  can  say;  worst  of  all  when  he's  been  drinking;  but  after 
this  he  won't  need  that  to  set  him  on  against  me.  Oh, 
I  can't  bear  it." 

' '  You  shall  not  have  to.  Come  back,  and  let  me 
talk  to  him." 

"It's  no  use;  he  doesn't  care  for  me  any  more,  he 
just  told  me  so." 

"Did  .you  say  he  had  been  drinking  this  evening?" 

"Yes,  he  has." 

"Then  he  don't  know  what  he  has  been  saying;  nor 


YESTERDAY.  183 

you  either  now,  you  are  so  excited;  but  that  doesn't  mat- 
ter. I  can  make  him  sober,  and  sorry  for  you  too,  and 
I  will.  Come  now;  we  can  get  back  to  the  house  before 
any  one  finds  out  you  have  been  gone. " 

"It  is  all  full  of  rats,   horrid  rats!" 

"Oh  no,   I  know  the  house,  there's  not  one  in  it" 

"I  heard  them.'' 

"It  was  a  window  shutting,  or  the  furniture  cracking. 
Never  mind  that" 

She  suffered  him  to  lead  her  a  few  steps;  then  she. 
stopped  short. 

"I  can't,   I  can't,   I— oh  !  " 

A  sudden  tremendous  clap  of  thunder  rang  out,  at 
the  same  minute,  it  seemed,  with  the  blaze  of  lightning 
that  encircled  them;  then  all  was  dark. 

"Oh,  are  you  killed?"  cried  Thyra.  "You  mustn't 
be  killed  for  me." 

"No,  indeed.  Come  out  of  this;  let  me  carry  you, 
we  shall  go  quicker." 

He  caught  her  up  and  made  his  way  back  as  fast  as 
he  could  through  the  wild  weather;  the  dead  darkness 
could  hardly  hold  its  own  against  the  constant  lightning- 
sheets;  the  rain  rattled  down  in  heavy  torrents,  the  thun- 
der hardly  out-roaring  it  At  the  house  door  he  set  her 
on  her  feet  again,  though  still  giving  her  his  arm.  The 
hotel  was  in  confusion  when  they  re-entered  it;  people 


1 84  YESTERDAY. 

were  running  about  shutting  doors  and  windows,  fright- 
ened children  were  crying;  the  stage  from  the  late  train, 
due  an  hour  ago,  but  delayed  by  a  tedious  though  trifling 
accident,  had  only  just  got  in,  and  was  discharging  its 
load  of  fatigued  and  excited  passengers,  about  accommo- 
dating all  of  whom  there  was  some  doubt.  In  this 
turmoil  Thyra  and  Felix  passed  unobserved. 

Harry  Sundon,  meanwhile,  had  been  awakened  by 
the  first  great  thunderclap.  He  sat  up  and  looked 
about  him,  wondered  what  time  of  night  it  was,  and 
why  he  had  gone  to  sleep  in  his  clothes.  He  got  up, 
found  the  rain  dashing  in;  shut  the  window,  lit  a  can- 
dle, splashed  cold  water  on  his  head  till  he  felt  it  clearer; 
looked  at  his  watch,  and  saw  it  was  not  late  yet;  turned 
to  speak  to  Thyra,  but  she  was  not  there.  Had  she  gone 
down  into  the  parlor  to  find  some  company  during  the 
storm  ?  she  was  so  afraid  of  lightning;  but  then  most 
likely  she  would  have  waked  him.  No,  he  had  scolded 
her  for  doing  that  once,  and  she  wouldn't  again.  Was 
that  what  they  had  been  talking  about  before  he  went 
to  sleep?  He  had  been  finding  some  fault  with  her; 
he  could  not  remember  what,  but  he  was  afraid  he  had 
been  rather  harder  on  her  than  was  fair.  To  be  sure, 
she  did  provoke  him  a  good  deal  sometimes,  often;  she 
was  getting  to  be  a  terrible  drag  on  him;  all  that  Tyne 
had  prophesied  of  her  had  come  true,  he  felt  it.  Was 


VESTERDAY.  185 

that  what  he  must  pay  for  winning  her  as  he  had  ? 
Poor  child,  she  was  paying  harder  for  her  share  in  the 
case.  These  four  years  had  been  a  time  of  professional 
success  for  him;  and  since  his  return  home,  people  had 
begun  to  overlook  the  fact  that  the  man  who  delighted 
ihem  on  the  stage  had  had  any  stain  on  his  private  life. 
But  she, — because  she  could  give  the  public  nothing, 
they  made  no  allowances  for  her.  He  had  plenty  of 
friends  and  acquaintance,  professional  and  other  (though 
no  one  ever  had  filled  or  could  fill  Tyne's  place  with 
him);  she,  between  the  women  that  thought  themselves 
too  good  and  those  he  thought  too  bad  for  her,  had  no 
one  of  her  own  sex,  and  his  friends  troubled  themselves 
very  little  about  her  now.  If  their  children  had  lived,  it 
would  have  helped  matters;  have  given  her  comfort,  and 
drawn  her  closer  to  him  again.  (Harry  often  talked  as  if 
he  detested  children,  but  he  really  was  fond  of  them,  and 
would  have  spoiled  rather  than  neglected  his  own,  if  he 
had  had  the  chance.)  Now  he  was  her  only  companion, 
and  had  he  not  failed  in  his  part  ?  He  had  even  accepted 
civilities  which  should  have  included  her  as  his  wife  or 
not  have  been  extended  to  him;  and  she  had  felt  that 
keenly.  This  case  had  only  lately  confronted  him;  but 
ought  he  not  to  put  a  stop  to  it?  And  after  that,  was 
there  no  more  to  do? 

In  answer,  the  door  opened,  and  Felix  came  in  with 


1 86  YESTERDAY. 

Thyra;  he  alert  and  anxious,  she  feint  and  stupefied;  both 
dripping  with  rain. 

' '  Why,  Thyra,  what's  happened  to  you  ?  "  cried  Harry 
in  amazement  "You  never  would  put  your  head  out  of 
doors  before  in  a  thunder-shower;  and  here  you  are  a 
perfect  fountain." 

' '  You'll  be  angry  with  me, "  she  managed  to  say,  as  she 
dropped  into  a  chair. 

"Nonsense!  what  for?     But  who's  this?" 

' '  Doctor  Felix  Belden,  at  your  service, "  answered  the 
new-comer. 

' '  Is  that  only  politeness, "  thought  Harry,  ' '  or  does  he 
think  one  may  be  wanting  him  ?  Something's  wrong. " 
Then  aloud,  "Much  obliged  to  you,  Doctor.  Now  I 
think  we'd  better  leave  Mrs.  Sundon  to  herself,  and  you 
can  tell  me  what  the  matter  is.  Thyra,  you  take  off  your 
wet  things  and  go  to  bed.  I'll  have  them  send  you  up 
something  warm  to  drink."  She  was  shivering  all  over. 
"That's  the  right  prescription,  Doctor,  isn't  it?" 

"As  far  as  it  goes,"  said  Felix.  "Now,  Mrs.  Sundon, 
you  must  not  be  frightened;  the  storm  is  nearly  over." 

"You're  as  wet  yourself  as  if  you'd  been  in  swimming, 
Doctor,"  said  Harry,  as  they  came  out 

"  I  have  plenty  of  dry  clothes.  This  is  my  room;  when 
you  are  ready,  I  think  we  have  a  word  to  say  to  each 
other." 


YESTERDAY.  187 

Harry  went  rather  uneasily  to  see  about  "something 
warm  "  for  Thyra;  the  bell  was  broken,  and  he  had  to 
hunt  up  service  for  himself.  He  was  half  glad  of  the  in- 
terruption, and  half  annoyed  by  it;  he  wanted  a  moment 
to.  compose  himself,  yet,  uncertain  what  part  to  take, 
longed  to  encounter  the  new  condition  of  things  at  once. 
Thyra's  state  was  alarming;  and  the  appearance  of  this  un- 
known man,  suddenly  becoming  concerned  in  their  affairs, 
irritating  to  the  highest  degree.  Some  blame,  perhaps, 
the  new-comer  had  to  give.  Now  self-accusation  in  si- 
lence and  alone  is  one  thing,  but  the  same  reproof  from 
the  lips  of  a  stranger  who  has  no  share  ini  your  misdeeds 
is  quite  another. 

Harry  felt  immediately  on  the  defensive;  yet  could  not 
resist  a  sense  that  it  might  be  better  to'  own  himself  in 
the  wrong,  — at  least  if  the  Doctor  were  disposed  to  make 
allowances. 

When  he  knocked  at  Felix's-  door,  the  Doctor  came  out 
to  meet  him,  with  a  candle  ira  his-  hand. 

"  We  must  not  talk  here,"  he  said;  "'everything  can  be 
overheard,  and  nothing  could  be  worse  for  Mrs.  Sundon 
just  now.  This  room  opposite  is  empty,  for  it  is  out  of 
repair. " 

The  ceiling  of  the  room  had  lately  fallen,  and  the  rub- 
bish was  not  yet  cleared  away;  with  some  trouble  they 
found  themselves  place  among  the  wreck.  The  rosy  fires 


1 88  YESTERDAY. 

of  the  lightning  were  fainter;  the  rain  still  rattled  down, 
but  not  so  loud.  The  storm  without  was  dying  down. 
Was  one  to  rise  within  ? 

"I  thought  this  evening,  Doctor,"  said  Harry,  inten- 
tionally taking  the  first  word,  ' '  that  you  were  an  old  ac- 
quaintance. I  see  I  am  mistaken;  but  I  find  I  am  to 
know  you  now.  You  understand  what  has  happened 
in  the  last  half-hour  better  than  I.  Is  anything  serious 
the  matter  with  my  wife?" 

"She  has  been  trying  to  drown  herself." 

"What  for?  You're  joking,  and  it  is  not  so  good  a 
joke  either." 

"No,  I  am  in  earnest,  and  so  was  she,  on  account 
of  what  you  have  been  saying  to  her.  I  told  you  one 
might  overhear  from  your  room  to  mine." 

"Why,  what  did  I  say?  I  know  we  had  some  sort 
of  foolish  quarrel,  but  I  did  not  think  I  was  so  very  un- 
pleasant as  that" 

"If  you  had  been  sober,  such  talk  would  be  unpar- 
donable. " 

"I  don't  remember  anything;  do  you?" 

Felix  had  a  better  verbal  memory  than  common;  he 
was  able  to  repeat  the  conversation  (leaving  out  however 
what  related  to  Grace,  whose  name  he  would  not  men- 
tion here)  with  a  distinctness  which  made  Harry  protest 
more  than  once,  "I'm  sure  I  never  said  that." 


YESTERDAY.  189 

"I  shouldn't  have  thought  of  it  by  myself,"  was  Felix's 
answer. 

"Well,"  said  Harry  at  last,  "you  have  me  at  your 
mercy,  it  seems." 

"How  so?  Do  you  suppose  I  would  let  this  go  any 
further?" 

"No;  you  don't  look  like  a  reporter.  But  you  see, 
you  are  in  my  wife's  confidence,  and  you  side  with 
her. " 

' '  Only  the  better  to  reconcile  you.  What  other  thing 
can  I  or  ought  I  to  be  thinking  of?  and  it  is  surely 
within  my  province,  though  hardly  within  my  power; 
that  really  belongs  to  you." 

A  recollection  came  before  Harry  of  Grace's  pleading 
with  him  for  Thyra,  long  ago.  That  time  he  had  failed 
in  what  he  had  undertaken,  to  be  sure.  Now  he  need 
not;  this  was  after  all  but  a  trifle. 

"Oh,  well,"  he  said,  "there's  no  trouble  to  speak  of 
about  it;  I  have  only  to  tell  her  the  truth,  that  I  didn't 
mean  it,  as  I  didn't, — I  am  really  fond  of  her,  I  swear 
I  am  ! — and  she'll  believe  me." 

"You  will  have  to  keep  saying  and  showing  that,  and 
not  contradict  it  by  any  hasty  word  or  deed  for  a  long 
time,  to  make  her  certainly  trust  you.  This  is  not  your 
first  quarrel,  and  she  has  learned  to  doubt  you." 

"I'll  cut  the  bottle,  anyway;  it's  not  easy,  but  it's  got 


190  YESTERDAY. 

to  be  done;  I  always  treat  her  badly  if  I've  had  any  too 
much." 

"You  had  better  on  your  own  account  too;  you  are 
one  of  those  people  that  stimulants  hurt  more  than  they 
help,  and  take  more  from  than  they  give." 

"Upon  my  word,  you  speak  with  authority." 

"Excuse  me  if  I  am  too  professional;  where  there  is 
so  much  at  stake,  one  uses  all  one's  arms." 

"Nobody  has  been  so  frank  with  me  since  my  old 
friend  Monty  Tyne's  day.  Did  you  ever  happen  to 
know  him  ? " 

"Yes." 

"What  did  you  think  of  him?" 

"As  a  man  who,  after  all,  was  better  than  his  rep- 
utation." 

"You're  not  so  stiff  as  I  took  you  to  be.  Well — 
You  say  'there  is  so  much  at  stake;'  what  do  you  mean 
exactly  ?  Is  there  anything  you  have  not  told  me  ? " 

"Yes.  You  have  to  hear  the  worst.  Your  wife  has 
suffered  a  great  shock,  which  will  affect  her  both  in  body 
and  mind;  and  her  life  for  some  years  past  must  have 
been  gradually  unfitting  her  to  bear  it.'  The  chances  are, 
brain-fever  now,  with  the  possibility  of  her  losing  either 
her  life  or  her  reason;  and  if  she  recovers,  there  is  still 
the  risk  of  her  being  an  invalid  for  the  rest  of  hei 
days. " 


YESTERDAY.  191 

"On  my  word,  this  stuff  here  had  better  have  come 
down  on  my  head." 

"No;  if  you  have  not  killed  her,  you  may  save  her 
yet" 

"But  what's  to  be  done  first  of  all?  What's  to  be 
done  now?" 

"Tell  her  that  you  are  not  angry,  that  you  don't  hate 
her,  that  you  have  not  forsaken  her;  tell  her  anything 
affectionate, — and  mean  it  if  you  can." 

"Easy  enough." 

"At  present  she  had  best  not  see  any  one  but  yourself. 
If  you  cannot  calm  her,  call  me;  but  I  think  you  can 
now.  Possibly  we  may  ward  off  this  first  attack,  though 
I  can  be  sure  of  no'thing  before  morning." 

"I'll  see."     Harry  left  the  room  at  once. 

Thyra  had  been  waiting  nervously  during  this  talk, 
sick  with  anticipation  of  what  Harry  might  say  once 
they  were  alone  together.  She  had  no  power  of  resist- 
ance before  him.  What  might  appear  like  a  defense 
was  only  the  instinctive  outcry  of  a  wounded  crea- 
ture. Against  Lang's  domination  she  had  made  head 
sometimes  in  former  days;  but  Sundon's  mastery  of  her 
was  keener  and  more  thorough.  One  of  the  cutting 
speeches  she  was  growing  familiar  with  from  him  would 
kill  her  now  she  thought.  When  she  heard  the  door 
open,  she  put  her  hand  over  her  mouth,  not  to  scream. 


192  YESTEKDAY. 

"Thyra!"  he  said,   very  gently. 

She  still  did  not  dare  to  speak.  He  sat  down  by  the 
bed,  put  out  his  hand  and  let  it  rest  lightly  on  her 
hair. 

"Thyra,  darling,  you  mustn't  be  afraid  of  me.  I  won't 
be  unkind  to  you  any  more.  I  can't  do  without  you;  if  I 
say  so,  you  mustn't  believe  me;  you  must  only  believe  I 
really  love  you." 

Had  she  ever  heard  his  voice  so  soft,  so  pleading,  so 
loving  ?  even  in  the  best  of  his  acting  ?  or  even  when — oh, 
should  she  never  escape  those  recollections  and  the  dis- 
grace in  them  ? 

"  I  don't  deserve  to  live,"  she  said. 

"Thyra,  if  you  die,  I  shall  have  murdered  you;  so  you 
will  live  now,  won't  you,  to  save  me  from  that  ? " 

She  began  to  sob  and  cry;  not  as  Grace  would  have,  for 
greater  pain,  but  for  mere  relief  from  the  tension  of  her 
former  terror.  He  held  her  hands  and  stroked  her  hair, 
calling  her  every  tender  name  he  could  think  of. 

Meanwhile  Felix  had  gone  down  to  see  if  the  late  train 
had  brought  him  any  acquaintances.  He  wanted  the  rest 
of  looking  on  a  familiar  face,  if  possible,  before  entering  on 
the  night  that  he  foreboded. 

As  he  came  into  the  large  parlor  where  most  of  the 
guests  were  gathered,  a  well-known  figure  unexpectedly 


YESTERDAY.  193 

rose  to  meet  him,  saying  with  a  pleasant  voice  and  cordial 
tone, 

"You've  not  forgotten  me,   Doctor  Belden  ?  " 

"Why,    Miss   Pringle  !  "  he  answered. 

"The  'spoilt  child,  Miss  Pringle, '  as  the  Norton  bovs 
used  to  call  me?  Yes  and  no,  Doctor.  I  am  Mrs.  Tony 
Waveney  now,  and  here  is  my  husband  to  spoil  me  in- 
stead of  my  sister.  Tony,  here's  an  old  friend  from  Cali- 
fornia for  us." 

"One  I  remember  on  this  side  too,  before  I  came  into 
all  my  feet  and  inches,"  answered  the  husband  in  as 
friendly  a  tone  as  hers.  "Come,  Doctor,  'let's  pre-empt 
that  corner,  and  have  a  big  talk,'  as  Ina  would  say." 

They  moved  aside,  out  of  the  stream  of  conversation 
flowing  round  the  other  new  arrivals,  who  were  making 
large  stories  out  of  the  small  accident.  Everybody  had 
dined,  the  storm  had  settled  into  a  drizzle,  and  the 
troubles  of  the  evening  were  giving  place  to  a  general 
feeling  of  comfort 

Tony  Waveney  was  very  like  Tyne  in  appearance,  with 
his  marked  though  plain  features  and  distinguished  air; 
but  he  had,  and  was  likely  to  keep  long,  the  look  of 
youth  which  his  uncle  had  early  lost.  An  easier,  sim- 
pler, more  unpractical  fellow  than  Tony  never  got  through 
the  world;  even  his  vigorous  sense  of  humor  did  not  make 
him  suspicious  or  prudent.  His  true  aid  and  balance  was 


194  YRSTR/tDAY. 

not  in  himself,  but  in  the  little  woman  at  his  side.  Ina 
(she  had  been  sentimentally  christened  Malvina,  but  she 
hardly  knew  it  herself,  much  less  her  friends,  accustomed 
to  the  pretty  shorter  substitute)  was  not  at  all  of  the  slim 
type  common  to  the  daughters  of  new  settlements.  Her 
figure,  though  it  showed  a  fine  healthy  physique,  lacked 
a  good  deal  of  being  graceful,  inclining  rather  to  the 
short,  stocky,  solid  type  of  the  Roman  women.  But 
like  them,  she  had  a  clear  dark  skin  and  a  fine  head 
with  abundant  black  hair  and  large  black  eyes.  Nor 
were  those  eyes  of  the  common  Italian  uncxpressive 
variety;  such  living  and  feeling  ones  would  have  be- 
fitted a  patriot  soul,  whose  men  had  had  her  hearty 
good-bye  when  they  went  with  Garibaldi  to  fight  the 
French  in  '49,  or  her  quick-witted  aid  when,  the  cause 
being  lost,  they  must  retreat  with  him.  Ina's  fate  had 
not  given  her  so  severe  an  experience;  but  it  had  de- 
manded both  energy  and  patience  of  her,  and  had  not 
found  her  wanting.  She  had  known  trials  in  her  girl- 
hood, and  borne  them  cheerfully;  her  marriage  was 
bringing  her  into  unaccustomed  circumstances,  but  she 
would  take  her  new  life  in  hand  from  its  best  side.  Her 
practical  nature  dealt  easily  with  details  which  perplexed 
her  husband,  while  her  love  for  him  kept  her  from  be- 
ing* disturbed  at  his  want  of  business-like  ways  and 
abilities.  Seeing  her  skill  in  affairs  and  her  matronly 


YESTERDAY.  195 

looks,  some  people  fancied  her  the  elder;  but  in  reality 
Tony  counted  two  years  more. 

Felix  had  known  Ina  in  San  Francisco,  as  an  orphan 
cared  for  by  her  married  sister;  the  pet  of  the  household, 
but  scarcely  deserving  the  name  some  of  her  acquaint- 
ance had  given  her.  The  brother-in-law,  an  amiable, 
lively,  extravagant  man,  invested  nearly  all  he  had  in 
mines;  his  income  therefore  underwent  constant  ups 
and  downs,  the  effects  of  which  it  took  all  the  care 
and  good  sense  of  Ina  and  Nelly  to  moderate.  For 
nearly  two  years  the  family  had  lived  abroad,  and  Felix 
had  thus  lost  sight  of  them,  not  even  knowing  of  Ina's 
marriage.  There  had  never  been  any  sentimental  feeling 
between  the  Doctor  and  the  young  girl;  they  liked  each 
other,  but  Ina  thought  him  too  grave,  and  he  found 
her  (preoccupied  as  he  was  with  Grace)  lacking  in  charm. 
Still  he  was  always  glad  to  meet  her,  particularly  just  now. 
This  healthy  contrast  to  the  impression  of  the  Sundons' 
affair  was  the  relief  he  needed.  Besides,  as  Waveney 
belonged  to  the  same  theatrical  company  as  Sundon, 
some  information  might  be  had  which  would  be  much 
to  the  purpose.  Felix  felt  uncertain  of  understanding 
Harry;  and  yet  Thyra's  life  perhaps  was  to  depend  on 
the  judgment  he  made. 

Meanwhile  Ina  was  talking: 

"It  seemed  very  natural   you   should   call   me   Miss 


196  YESTERDAY. 

Pringle,  Doctor;  I  have  hardly  got  the  habit  of  writing 
'  Ina  Waveney '  yet,  though  it  is  a  real  change  for  the 
better;  just  as  it  always  bothered  me  to  put  the  fresh 
dates  in  my  letters  after  every  New  Year's  Day." 

' '  You  have  not  been  married  long  ?  " 

"Not  a  fortnight  But  we  were  engaged  a  year, — 
and  such  an  everlasting  one,  because  I  had  to  stay  on 
the  wrong  side  of  the  sea." 

"That's  well  over  now,  though,"  said  Waveney;  "here 
we  are  on  our  wedding  trip.  I  should  have  liked  a 
quieter  place,  but  everywhere  we  have  tried  to  go  there's 
the  same  crowd;  and  then  here  we  find  friends, — your- 
self, and  Sundon,  who  Start  tells  me  came  this  morning. 
I  thought  he  was  at  Newport  still.  Did  you  ever  know 
him  ? " 

"Our  acquaintance  has  just  begun." 

' '  Where  is  he  ?  " 

"His  wife  is  ill,  and  he  cannot  leave  her.  I  don't 
think  you  will  see  him  to-night." 

"Oh,  I  can  wait.  I'm  sorry  for  Mrs.  Sundon;  she 
doesn't  look  as  if  she  could  stand  much." 

"What  do  you  make  of  her  husband?" 

"Don't  you  like  him?  Oh,  I  see;  he's  been  drinking. 
It's  too  bad.  There  never  was  a  man  that  one  could 
more  truly  call  'not  himself  in  that  case.  All  the  same 
he's  my  best  friend,  and  I  owe  him  everything." 


YESTERDAY.  197 

"Yes,  I'm  sure  no  thanks  could  be  too  much  from  us 
to  him,"  said  Ina.  "Tell  how  it  all  happened,  Tony." 

"1  may  as  well  begin  at  the  beginning,  then,  Doctor, 
if  you  care  to  hear." 

"Indeed  I  do  care." 

' '  My  father,  you  see,  having  been  a  distinguished  grad- 
uate of  a  German  School  of  Mines  insisted  that  I  should 
follow  in  his  footsteps;  a  very  good  idea,  but  for  the  one 
trifling  fact,  that  he  and  I  are  too  unlike  for  our  successes 
to  ever  be  the  same.  When  my  uncle  Mont  came  out 
to  me,  I  had  already  begun  to  understand  that  I  was 
in  the  wrong  place,  and  hinted  as  much  to  him.  '  What 
else  would  you  like  to  do  ? '  he  asked.  I  didn't  quite 
know.  He  persuaded  me  to  keep  on  a  little  longer, 
and  a  little  longer,  he  living  meanwhile  in  the  same  dull 
town  and  making  it  as  bright  for  me  as  he  could.  But 
after  two  years  he  owned  I  was  right.  Then  he  said, 
'  There's  no  hurry;  I've  capital  enough  to  start  you  in  any 
business  you  like  at  any  time  you  please;  what  you  want 
now  is  a  year's  travel,  to  see  what  people  are  like  and 
how  they  live,  and  so  be  better  able  to  choose  your  own 
work,— for  you  must  have  something  to  do;  you'll  never 
be  happy  as  an  idler.'  We  traveled,  and  two  things 
came  of  it;  I  revived  an  old  boyish  hankering  for  the 
stage,  and  I  met  Ina." 

"Yes,  and  I  must  tell  you  where,  Doctor,"  she  said;  "it 


198  YESTERDAY. 

was  so  appropriate  to  your  eminently  unromantic  friend. 
In  the  elevator  of  the  Charing  Cross  Hotel.  We  in- 
spected each  other  from  the  ground  floor  to  the  fifth 
story,  and  our  minds  were  made  up  when  we  reached 
the  top,  though  we  waited  a  while  to  declare  them." 

"I  found  no  difference  of  opinion  when  I  ventured 
on  stating  mine,  though,"  said  Waveney.  "Next,  I  took 
my  uncle  into  my  confidence.  My  theatrical  views 
seemed  to  disturb  him  a  little.  'A  not  uncommon 
fancy  of  clever,  young  people,'  he  said;  'but  there's  a 
great  deal  to  be  thought  of — you've  no  idea  of  the  diffi- 
culties— we'll  wait  till  my  friend  Sundon  comes  back 
from  Australia,  and  consult  him.'  But  about  my  engage- 
ment he  never  really  raised  a  question.  '  You  are  both 
rather  young;  but  it's  better  so  than  to  wait  too  long; 
besides,  you'll  have  something  worth  living  for  now.  We 
must  go  back  to  America  and  make  a  beginning  at  once.' 
So  we  sailed;  but  he  died  on  the  steamer.  At  least  he 
never  knew  I  was  left  without  a  cent." 

Waveney  paused,  a  restrained,  but  distinct  look  of 
still  fresh  suffering  stealing  over  his  face.  Ina  slid  her 
hand  into  his. 

"That  was  a  hard  time  for  you,"  said  Felix. 

"Not  so  bad  as  you  think,  though,"  Waveney  went 
on,  "for  that's  where  Sundon  comes  in.  When  we 
were  off  Quarantine,  and  the  passengers  all  out  on 


YESTERDAY.  199 

deck  in  their  new  clothes,  and  the  sun  shining,  I 
couldn't  stand  it,  but  turned  back  into  my  stateroom. 
By  and  by  I  heard  a  knock,  and  looked  up.  There 
stood  Sundon;  he  had  come  on  with  the  health-officer, 
expecting  to  find  my  uncle.  When  I  told  him  how 
things  had  gone  with  us,  he  fairly  broke  down.  It 
makes  you  feel  different  to  a  man,  once  you've  seen 
him  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  don't  you  know  ?  and  that 
was  our  introduction.  After  a  while,  he  made  me  talk 
of  myself;  would  hear  all  my  fears  and  fancies,  promised 
to  start  me  in  the  world — and  kept  his  word  too.  I  owe 
him  every  engagement  I've  had.  As  soon  as  I  could,  I 
let  Ina  know  my  plans,  and  told  her  she  was  free  to 
take  no  more  interest  in  them — " 

"As  if  you  hadn't  made  yourself  a  hero  of  romance 
by  those  new  fortunes !  With  such  added  attractions, 
of  course  I  was  not  ready  to  let  him  go." 

"  Still  we  didn't  see  our  way  ahead  much.  But  while 
we  were  living  on  letters,  my  present  brother-in-law, 
then  only  possibly  so,  was  getting  up  one  of  his  peri- 
odical trees,  with  the  prospect  of  staying  longer  than 
usual  at  that  height  The  'Grasshopper  Outfit' wouldn't 
output,  and  was  an  unquestionable  burden.  So  one  fine 
day  Ina  writes  me  that  she  must  do  something  too,  and 
will  return  to  her  native  land  as  companion  of  an  elderly 
Miss  Briggs,  who  is  tired  of  living  alone.  We  there- 


200  YESTERDAY. 

fore  plan  a  meeting  in  New  York.  In  the  interval  of 
the  voyage  Miss  Briggs  is  persuaded  by  an  old  flame, 
unexpectedly  met  on  the  steamer,  to  fix  their  wedding- 
day  for  the  first  convenient  time  after  coming  to  shore; 
Ina's  occupation  being  gone,  what  is  left  us  but  to  fol- 
low Miss  Briggs's  example?  Of  course  my  great-aunt 
thinks  it  a  shocking  imprudence;  but  the  Pringles  don't 
object,  and  Sundon  says  I  can  afford  it,  as  I  am  sure 
to  get  on." 

Felix  had  made  a  different  decision  for  himself,  and 
meant  to  keep  to  it;  but  it  was  not  in  his  heart  to  say 
less  than,  "I  do  believe  you  are  right. '' 

"And  now,"  said  Ina,  "the  Grasshopper  Outfit  begins 
to  '  boom  '  and  Bob  and  Nellie  threaten  me  with  all  sorts 
of  wonderful  wedding  presents.  It  comes  to  the  same 
thing  in  the  end.  When  a  girl  marries  a  rich  man,  he 
leaves  her  always  a  poor  widow,  who  must  help  half  the 
family  connection  out  of  a  tiny  salary  as  extra  clerk  in 
some  Department  in  Washington.  I'm  not  so  ambi- 
tious !  " 

"But  as  for  Sundon,"  Waveney  began.  "I  really 
think — to  be  sure  there  are  old  stories — still — " 

He  broke  off;  Jje  had  not  really  considered  before  how 
this  old  friendship  would  be  affected  by  his  marriage,  and 
whether,  in  spite  of  its  claims  on  him,  his  wife  ought 
to  be  brought  in  contact  with  it.  But  the  moment  he 


YKSTEKDAY.  2OI 

paused,  Ina  spoke  up:  "Is  Mrs.  Sundon  seriously  ill, 
Doctor  ?  " 

"The  chances  are  against  her.  I  am  afraid  of  brain- 
fever.  " 

' '  Has  she  any  friends  in  the  house  ? " 

' '  No  one. " 

"If  there's  anything  I  can  do  for  her,  count  upon 
me.  It's  inhuman  to  stand  off  when  people  are  too 
sick  to  help  themselves.  I  mean  what  I  say." 

"I  may  need  you,  though  I  hope  not." 

"It's  no  such  great  thing.  If  you  want  me,  I'm 
ready. " 

By  morning  Ina  was  indeed  required  to  fulfill  her 
offer. 

"Mi's.  Sundon  is  just  in  that  state  when  one  must 
if  possible  do  what  a  patient  wishes,"  Felix  said,  "and 
she  begs  to  see  some  woman's  face.  These  stupid  servant- 
girls  would  be  worse  than  nobody.  I  shall  get  a  nurse 
for  her  as  soon  as  I  can;  meanwhile — 

"  Here  I  am,  as  I  promised  you." 

"With  your  aid,  we  may  tide  over  the  day  quietly, 
though  I  cannot  be  certain.  Her  husband  has  done  the 
Ix-st  ho  couhl,  and  twice  as  much  a*  I  expected  of 
him;  but  wo  must  have  other  help  now." 

When  she  saw  Harry,  Ina  thought  he  himself  looked 
like  another  patient.  "1  hoped  to  have  welcomed  Tony's 


202  YESTERDAY. 

wife  more  as  one  should  a  bride,"  he  began,  "but  you 
see — " 

He  broke  off;  for  Thyra,  lying  with  her  hands  pressed 
over  her  eyes,  asked  in  a  strange  dull  voice,  "Doctor, 
who  did  you  find  ?  I  can't  have  any  one  coming'  here 
that  I  know." 

"We  have  never  met,  -Mrs.   Sundon,"  said  Ina. 

"But  you'll  say  afterwards  they  brought  you  on  false 
pretenses,  when  you  hear  the  whole  story." 

' '  No,   I  have  heard. " 

Thyra  uncovered  her  eyes,  and  studied  the  new-comer. 

"I  like  your  looks,"  she  said.  "You're  not  always 
thinking  about  them.  Are  you  married  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Of  course,  or  they  wouldn't  have  let  you  come. 
Or  perhaps  you're  a  widow?  Sometimes  I  wish  I  was." 

Harry's  face  worked  uneasily.  He  had  withdrawn  out 
of  Thyra's  sight,  but  kept  watching  her. 

"No,   my  husband  is  alive." 

"You  don't  seem  to  mind  that.     Who  is  he?" 

' '  Mr.   Waveney. " 

' '  He  always  was  very  civil  to  me.  I  hope  he's  good 
to  you." 

"Nobody  could  be  better." 

"I'm  so  tired  of  men!  I  see  nothing  else.  You're 
a  great  comfort  and  a  great  variety.  They're  a  good 


YESTERDAY.  203 

deal  alike  after  all;  and  they're  hard,  and  rough,  and 
sharp.  Tell  me  any  woman  can  be  so  cutting !  But 
you  know  them.  Perhaps  you  can  tell  me  what  to  do 
when  they're  bad  to  one;  I've  tried  and  tried,  and  I 
can't  get  even  with  them.  Not  now  though;  I'm  too 
tired.  Suppose  we  don't  talk  any  more.  I  used  to 
like  talking,  but  that  was  before  people  made  fun  of 
everything  I  said.  You  haven't  laughed  at  me  once 
since  you  came  in;  I  like  that.  Harry's  always  laugh- 
ing at  me.  He's  doing  it  now." 

Nothing  could  have  been  graver,  not  to  say  sadder, 
than  Sundon's  face. 

"You  think  he  isn't,"  Thyra  went  on,  "don't  you?" 

"I'm  sure  he  isn't,"  Ina  answered. 

"You  don't  know  him.  Did  you  never  read  about 
witches  when  you  were  a  little  girl  ?  He's  one.  There's 
nothing  they  can't  do.  He  isn't  really  there;  he's  having 
a  good  time  in  some  other  place;  he  leaves  his  shadow 
behind  to  laugh  at  me;  but  he's  not  really  there;  no, 
no  ! "  with  a  long  sob. 

At  this,  Harry  came  forward  and  caught  his  wife's 
hand.  "Thyra,  I  am  here;  I  couldn't  laugh,  and  you 
crying;  I  couldn't  amuse  myself,  and  you  in  pain." 

"Do  you  think  he's  making  believe?"  asked  Thyra 
of  Ina. 

"No,"  Ina  answered.      "It's  all  true." 


204  YESTEKDA  V. 

"Well,  Harry,  since  you  say  so —  Now  don't,  you'll 
hurt  me;  you  squeezed  my  ring  into  my  finger  once — isn't 
there  a  scar  ?  "  There  was  not.  ' '  Now  go  away,  and  let 
me  talk  to  this  lady.  I've  a  great  deal  to  tell  her;  what 
you  call  women's  trash,  about  dresses  and  things;  you 
won't  want  to  hear.  Is  he  gone?  Come  back;  I  want 
to  say — what  was  it?  I  forget." 

Through  the  day  Thyra  would  not  let  Ina  leave  her. 
By  night,  however,  she  knew  no  one  any  longer.  For 
days  she  remained  in  a  state  to  alarm  the  watchers  to  the 
utmost  for  her;  for  weeks,  even  after  the  balance  had  dip- 
ped in  her  favor,  and  it  was  plain  she  would  neither  die 
nor  go  mad,  she  still  was  wretchedly  feeble  and  helpless. 
The  nurse  turned  out  a  very  good  one;  but  once  the 
worst  was  over,  there  was  much  Ina  could  do,  and  she 
did  not  spare  herself. 

Felix  saw  Thyra  out  of  danger,  before  he  returned  to 
San  Francisco;  he  could  not  wait  for  her  complete  recov- 
ery, as  that  bid  fair  to  take  months,  or  even  years;  but  he 
did  not  go  till  he  assured  himself  that  Harry  understood 
the  gravity  of  the  matter.  Whether  he  would  continue  to 
be  the  devoted  husband  as  long  as  there  was  need  of  it, 
was  still  beyond  the  Doctor's  power  not  to  doubt;  but  one 
might  reasonably  hope  for  the  best.  One  conversation 
between  the  two  men  had  certainly  pointed  that  way,  and 
was  encouraging  otherwise. 


YF.STF.RD.4Y.  2O5 

"You  have  made  yourself  loyal  and  unsuspicious  friends 
in  the  Waveneys,"  Felix  said. 

"Do  you  think  I  shall  lose  them?"  Harry  asked. 

"  I  hope  you  know  how  to  keep  them." 

"You  don't  think  I  could  mean  anything  unfair  to  that 
boy  and  girl,  do  you  ?  Such  a  couple  have  a  right  to  the 
best  treatment  from  the  world;  and  if  the  world  don't  do 
its  duty  by  them,  anyhow  I  will." 

"I  believe  you;  and  elsewhere  too." 

"But  don't  you  think  Thyra  is  better?" 

"  Yes:  but  her  life  is  still  in  your  hands,  and  may  be  so 
for  a  long  time  to  come." 

"I'll  remember." 

Felix  gave  Florence  a  brief  account  only  of  his  length- 
ened absence,  which  in  Florence's  letter  to  Grace  became 
in  turn  little  more  than  news  of  the  Waveneys;  still  there 
was  enough  to  make  Grace  annoyed  that  her  friends  should 
be  involved  with  the  Sundons.  She  wondered  also  if  any- 
thing could  have  been  said  of  her;  but  she  would  not  ask. 
hhe  had  no  reason  however  to  fear.  Waveney  knew  her 
so  little  that  he  did  not  happen  to  speak  of  her  to  Felix; 
and  Felix,  having  really  more  news  of  her  from  Florence 
than  Tony  could  command,  had  no  cause  to  question 
him.  Besides,  the  Doctor  wished  to  keep  that  image  un- 
disturbed by  his  present  surroundings.  It  was  bad  enough 
to  have  heard  that  speech  of  Sundon's;  impudent  fiction  of 


206  YESTERDAY. 

a  tipsy  fancy  as  it  must  be,  it  implied  some  former  ac- 
quaintance, some  inexplicable  carelessness  or  folly  of 
Tyne's  that  had  allowed  the  two  to  meet  But  of  course 
there  was  no  question  what  part  Grace  must  have  taken. 
Harry  bid  Felix  good-bye  with  a  mixture  of  emotions; 
gratitude  for  his  saving  Thyra,  good  feeling  for  his  having 
shown  himself  an  understanding  friend,  and  relief  at  es- 
caping from  so  keen  a  judgment  exercised  from  a  stand- 
point so  different  from  one's  own.  "The  Doctor's  rather 
too  much  for  me,"  he  thought;  "still  I  should  like  to  see 
more  of  him.  He's  a  good  fellow  in  his  quiet  way;  and  a 
man,  notwithstanding  his  youth  was  crushed  out  of  him  so, 
poor  soul.  Yet  if  ever  he  crosses  my  path  again,  it  will  be 
unlucky  for  me  somehow — Bosh  !  I  mustn't  be  getting 
superstitious." 


CHAPTER   XII. 

FOUR  years  more,  and  some  months,  have  passed 
since  Felix  Belden  turned  his  face  again  towards 
California.  It  is  a  bright  Saturday  afternoon  in  New 
York;  cold  and  windy  indeed  out  of  doors,  since  Janu- 
ary reigns,  but  warm  and  sheltered  in  the  theaters,  where 
the  matinees  are  going  on  at  this  hour. 

We  once  had  reason,  the  old  playgoers  say,  to  com- 
pare our  actors  to  the  famous  cook  who  refused  to  show 
her  art  in  its  perfection  when  there  were  "only  ladies" 
in  the  family  where  she  served.  But  these  veterans  now 
confess  that  the  afternoon  audiences '  do  not  find  them- 
selves neglected  because  they  are  largely  feminine  and 
apt  to  be  timid  in  the  matter  of  applause.  In  the  way 
of  numbers  certainly  they  are  not  trifling.  All  around 
New  York,  Saturday  is  the  great  occasion,  one  might 
call  it  the  festival,  of  the  suburban  woman.  She  comes  • 
in  by  ferry  or  train  in  the  morning,  meeting  her  neigh- 
bors on  the  way  and  having  a  bit  of  chat  with  them;  she 
shops  till  lunch-time, — and  shopping  may  be  made  very 


208  YESTERDAY. 

pleasant; — she  lunches,  now  with  a  town-dwelling  friend, 
now  at  some  satisfactory  restaurant;  she  has  her  stroll  in 
those  Broadway  neighborhoods,  where  one's  eyes  turn 
from  the  gay  and  varied  crowd  to  the  shop-windows  and 
back,  amused  and  brightened;  and  then  her  matinee, 
in  a  theater,  light,  bright,  fresh-looking,  comfortable, 
easy  to  get  in  and  out  of  (how  easy  one  does  not  appre- 
ciate except  by  ventures  in  the  bewildering  labyrnths 
which  lead  to  orchestra  chairs  and  balconies  abroad,  spe- 
cially in  London);  where  (unless  at  the  opera)  she  does 
not  feel  that  she  has  paid  too  much;  and  where  she  may 
take  her  daughter,  and  docs. 

Benson's  company  appear  to-day  in  a  piece  which 
seems  likely  to  have  a  long  run,  from  its  many  good 
qualities.  Sundon  and  Waveney  both  have  important 
parts  in  it,  though  Sundon's  is  the  best 

Some  of  Waveney's  acquaintance  wondered  that  he 
was  willing  to  play  second  to  Sundon;  but  Waveney 
knew  well  enough  that  a  rivalry  between  them  wouUl 
only  tell  against  himself,  and  that  Harry's  neighborhood 
gave  him  often  opportunities  that  one  might  fail  of  with 
an  inferior  companion.  His  own  range  was  not  a  wide 
one.  He  could  play  his  own  part  (a  thing  all  the  world 
has  not  the  gift  of  doing,  by  the  way,  either  on  or  off 
the  stage),  of  an  easy  gentlemanly  young  fellow;  he  had 
besides  a  marked  success  in  anything  requiring  gro- 


.       YESTERDAY.  209 

tesque  but  wholesome  humor;  but  powerful,  impas- 
sioned, or  pathetic  effects  were  beyond  him  at  present. 
The  weight  of  the  pieces  would  come  upon  Harry,  and 
he  carried  it  as  if  it  were  nothing.  He  was  certain -of 
popular  favor,  and  the  assurance  did  not  spoil  him; -he 
was  too  thorough  an  artist  now  to  be  swayed  from  his 
course  by  praise  or  blame  that  did  not  tally  with  his 
own  convictions,  no  matter  how  keenly  he  enjoyed  ap- 
preciation or  suffered  from  misconception.  All  this  had 
been  a  gradual  and  continuous  growth,  uninterrupted 
since  first  he  set  foot  on  the  stage.  Outside  of  his  pro- 
fession, however,  his  life  had  undergone  a  great  change 
since  his  encounter  with  Felix  Belden. 

Thyra's  illness  had  left  her  with  broken  health  for  a 
long  time,  as  Felix  had  predicted.  She  had  needed  con- 
stant, patient,  loving  care,  and  she  had  had  it.  In  the  be- 
ginning this  had  been  rather  perforce  with  Harry;  but  he 
had  made  himself  serve  her  till  it  grew  easy.  After  all, 
he  thought,  what  else  had  he  to  give  his  spare  time  to? 
If  she  were  a  foolish  child,  grown  people  owe  something 
to  children,  and  it  is  unfair  to  be  unkind  to  the  poor 
things.  She  had  been  very  near  death  through  him; 
now  he  had  that  rare  thing,  a  chance  of  undoing  a 
work  done  amiss.  At  first  she  had  tried  him  a  good 
deal,  but  even  then  her  frightened  efforts  not  to  vex 
him  were  so  pathetic  that  his  irritation  seemed  inhu- 


210  YESTERDAY. 

man,  confronted  with  them.  By  degrees  he  grew  to 
feel  her  no  trouble,  and  at  length  to  be  fond  of  her 
in  a  new  way.  His  old  passion  for  her  was  gone,  and 
a  real  sympathetic  union  of  themselves  was  hardly  to  be 
expected;  but  he  had  a  great  tenderness  for  the  helpless 
creature  so  entirely  dependent  on  him,  and  could  not 
bear  to  do  anything  that  should  disturb  ever  so  little 
the  rooted  trust  she  now  showed  in  him.  So  it  was 
that  Harry  Sundon  became  a  domestic  man. 

This  state  of  life  was  no  unhappy  one,  especially  to  a 
man  who,  where  not  led  by  professional  ambition,  never 
looked  ahead,  but  lived  on  day  by  day.  If  he  thought 
of  the  future,  as  one  will  when  one  begins  to  grow  older 
(he  was  full  forty  now),  he  foresaw  no  change.  Probably 
he  would  outlast  Thyra;  but  he  meant  to  keep  her  in 
this  world  as  long  as  possible.  He  had  no  fears  for  her 
to-day;  during  the  last  half-year,  his  devotion  had  been 
rewarded  by  a  great  improvement  in  her  health;  she 
declared  that  "she  felt  as  well  as  anybody,  and  could 
do  as  much,  if  she  had  it  to  do" — which  he  took  care 
she  did  not. 

The  past  was  little  less  present  with  Harry  than  the 
future.  He  thought  occasionally  of  Tyne,  much  as 
he  remembered  the  more  distant  image  of  his  father; 
those  two,  who  had  been  interested  in  his  fortunes 
when  their  own  were  so  waning,  were  not  to  be  for- 


YESTERDAY.  211 

gotten.  But  there  was  another  figure  which  he  first 
had  driven  from  his  mind,  and  then  had  thought  it 
vanished  of  itself  He  believed  it  quite  effaced;  what 
was  his  surprise  on  that  Saturday  to  rediscover  it  clear 
and  distinct ! 

' '  I  expect  a  critic  this  afternoon  who  will  worry  me 
a  bit,"  said  Waveney,  as  they  were  walking  over  to  the 
theater  together.  (They  lived  in  the  same  apartment 
house,  the  Sundons  on  the  second  floor,  the  Waveneys 
on  the  third.  Ina  was  Thyra's  friend,  in  the  same  way 
as  she  had  been;  and  considering  Mrs.  Sundon's  invalid 
condition  and  secluded  life,  the  world  did  not  take  it 
much  amiss.) 

"Why,  who,  Tony?  You  ought  to  be  hardened  to 
every  kind  of  public  by  this  time." 

"My  cousin,  Grace  Delahay,  who  knows  more  than 
most  people." 

' '  The  lady  from  Texas  ?  " 

Grace  did  not  correspond  with  the  Waveneys,  and 
they  knew  little  of  her;  but  now  and  then,  in  the 
course  of  these  four  years,  her  name  had  been  men- 
tioned, and  Harry  had  gathered  that  she  was  still  with 
the  Romaines  at  San  Antonio.  He  had  never  given 
the  Waveneys  any  hint  of  his  former  acquaintance  with 
her,  nor,  he  believed, — and  rightly, — had  Thyra. 

' '  Not  from  Texas  any  longer, "  was  the  answer.      ' '  The 


212  YESTERDAY. 

Romaines  are  stationed  in  Washington  now.  The  daugh- 
ther — a  pretty  little  pet  of  sixteen  or  so;  I'd  like  one  of 
my  girls  to  grow  up  in  that  style — is  here  on  a  visit  to 
her  grandmother,  the  handsome  old  lady  who's  just  moved 
into  the  hottse  opposite  us  with  the  high  steps;  and  they 
sent  Grace  on  with  her  pupil,  to  give  them  both  a  va- 
cation. I  met  her  in  the  street  a  day  or  two  ago,  the 
first  I  knew  of  her  being  in  town.  She  wrote  me  such 
a  lovely  letter  when  my  uncle  Mont  died,  I  ought  not  to 
have  lost  sight  of  her;  but  I'm  no  correspondent  Ina 
and  I  went  over  yesterday  to  see  her,  and  of  course  Ina 
was  full  of  the  play.  So  they  declared  they  should  be 
there,  and  you'll  see  them.  I  wish  I  could  learn  your 
trick  of  looking  all  round  the  house  and  never  getting 
out  or  losing  yourself;  I  shall  have  to  take  their  coming 
for  granted." 

"How  shall  I  know  your  cousin?" 

"Brown  hair  and  eyes,  rather  tall,  graceful — but  you 
saw  her  photograph  I  think;  Ina  had  it  on  the  mantel- 
piece in  that  little  painted  frame.  She's  prettier,  but 
it's  a  likeness;  she  gave  it  to  Ina  yesterday." 

"Yes,  I  saw  it."  This  was  a  fib,  for  Harry  had  not 
noticed  it  at  all;  to  be  sure  it  had  been  covered  up  by 
another  picture  leaning  against  it,  one  that  Waveney 
took  great  pride  in,  of  his  two  girls. 

"Grace  is  a  much  more  attractive  woman  than  when 


YESTERDAY.  213 

I  remember  her  first,"  Waveney  went  on.  "I  used 
to  think  her  sharp  and  thin,  not  to  say  angular;  but 
she  has  softened  and  filled  out,  till  she  is  really  charm- 
ing in  every  way.  I'd  like  to  be  sure  that  she  won't 
set  me  down  third-rate.  You  are  safe,  even  if  she  hadn't 
seen  you  before,  which  she  has.  She  spoke  of  you  with 
quite  a  touch  of  enthusiasm." 

Harry  changed  the  subject;  he  wanted — why,  he  could 
not  tell — to  hear  more,  but  was  afraid  of  showing  an  in- 
terest inconsistent  with  the  appearance  of  knowing  noth- 
ing of  its  cause.  He  wondered  notwithstanding  what  at- 
titude Grace  would  take  towards  him  and  Thyra;  for  in 
the  position  of  all  three  in  regard  to  the  Waveneys,  some- 
thing must  inevitably  be  said  or  done.  Whatever  it  was, 
under  the  circumstances,  it  would  be  only  fair  to  bear 
her  out  in  it.  It  would  be  impossible  to  expect  Ina's 
kindness ;  she  who  treated  Thyra  as  if  she  had  had 
no  past,  as  far  as  Thyra,  who  dreaded  compromising 
such  a  friend,  would  allow.  Still  Grace,  in  spite  of  that 
one  moment  on  the  steamer,  was  not  a  woman  to  show 
her  feelings.  What  he  seriously  dreaded,  however,  was 
a  misunderstanding  that  should  make  Grace  believe  it 
right  to  try  and  bring  about  a  coolness  between  himself 
and  the  Waveneys*  He  saw  too  plainly  the  theory  of 
him  that  she  was  likely  to  hold;  and  how  could  he  con- 
vince her  in  time  that  it  was  now  a  mistaken  one  ?  He 


214  YESTERDAY. 

had  always  thought  of  Ina  as  a  cherished  younger  sister: 
if  Grace  were  to  make  her  suspicious  of  him — cause  Thyra 
to. lose  her  one  friend! —  And  it  would  be  his  own  fault 
if  that  happened,  too. 

Meanwhile  all  was  not  tranquil  at  the  theater;  Benson 
had  an  anxiety,  which  he  took  the  first  chance  of  con- 
fiding to  the  two  actors. 

"We're  only  too  likely  to  have  a  panic  this  afternoon. 

It's  in  the  air.  After  last  week  at and  last  night  at 

houses  are  getting  awfully  skittish.  The  play's  against 
us  just  now.  The  end  of  the  second  act  leaves  people 
all  wrought  up,  and  there's  no  letting  'em  down  easier 
without  spoiling  the  effect  and  making  the  papers  say 
we're  falling  off  and  getting  flat.  Then  if  a  pin  drops 
between  the  acts,  they'll  all  jump  and  rush.  And  even 
if  we  tide  over  that,  the  third  act — something's  sure  to 
happen  there  unless  you  two  can  fix  it.  You  begin  it  to- 
gether; I  depend  upon  you.  I  daren't  speak  to  anybody 
else,  for  if  we  don't  keep  all  as  cool  as  cool,  the  house'll 
nose  it  out." 

Sundon  laughed;  he  did  not  believe  much  in  Ban- 
son's  alarms,  and  knew  himself  ready  for  accidents. 
Waveney  took  it  less  lightly,  but  it  did  not  weigh  hard 
on  him  either. 

When  Harry  came  on,  he  had  forgotten  about  Grace; 
but  all  at  once  he  caught  sight  of  her.  How  she  had 


YESTEKDAY.  215 

changed  for  the  better,  to  be  sure  !  Tyne  was  right  in 
his  prophecy  that  she  would  grow  more  charming  with 
years.  The  pretty  little  schoolgirl  at  her  side,  to  whom 
she  turned  and  spoke  in  that  winning  way,  was  not  to 
compare  with  her.  She  showed  a  completeness,  a  com- 
posure that  yet  was  full  of  promise  of  quick  feeling,  that 
he  had  not  expected. 

By  the  time  these  observations  were  made,  he  became 
conscious  that  Grace  was  studying  him  too;  whether  for 
his  acting  alone,  or  with  regard  to  himself  besides, "  he 
could  not  tell,  though  he  feared  he  could  not  escape  the 
last.  It  was  a  relief  that  he  did  not  play  the  villain  of 
the  piece  this  time;  she  would  probably  believe  he  rep- 
resented such  characters  con  amore.  Was  the  revulsion 
of  their  last  meeting  as  powerful  as  ever  with  her  ?  Sup- 
pose they  encountered  each  other  by  accident  at  the 
Waveneys,  would  she  treat  him  so  again  ?  At  least  he 
would  meet  her  differently;  nothing  in  the  world  should 
make  him  seem  familiar  now.  Oh,  this  was  ridiculous; 
what  did  it  matter,  if  she  did  not  choose  to  forgive  him 
like  other  people  ?  But  then  who,  after  Lang  and  Thyra, 
nad  so  much  to  forgive? 

These  flickering  secret  flames  of  thought  came  and 
went,  but  made  no  impression  on  his  acting  any  more 
than  Benson's  worries;  unless  he  might  feel  something 
of  the  irritation  Grace's  presence  used  to  cause  him, 


2l6  YESTERDAY. 

coming  now  not  as  a  contradiction,  but  as  a  spur.  Cer- 
iainly  he  was  at  his  best  to-day.  People  who  often  saw 
him  play  declared  he  was  never  mechanical  and  never 
did  exactly  the  same  thing  twice;  this  afternoon  they 
noted  variations  which  were  all  improvements. 

The  second  act  reached  its  stirring  close,  the  curtain 
fell.  Benson's  fears  at  first  seemed  not  likely  to  be  jus- 
tified; but  as  the  curtain  began  to  rise  again — which  it 
did  on  an  empty  scene,  where  the  performers  were  to 
enter  singly — two  or  three  people  got  up  and  went  slowly 
out;  then  two  or  three  more,  with  quicker  steps.  At 
that  the  heads  of  the  audience  turned  away  from  the  stage 
and  towards  the  doors;  some  bent  together  with  a  whis- 
pered "Don't  you  smell  smoke?"  then  all  at  once,  with 
an  alarmed  buzz  and  rustle,  the  whole  house  was  on  its 
feet  An  outward  push  was  beginning  in  the  crowd, 
but  it  stopped  short  as  Benson  came  out  to  the  foot- 
lights. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  nothing's  the  matter,  I  assure 
you  positively;  please  sit  down." 

Somehow  the  audience  were  not  quite  ready  to  believe 
Benson;  his  important  coolness  had  unconsciously  an  air 
of  being  put  on.  The  stir  was  checked  for  the  moment, 
indeed;  calls  of  "sit  down  "echoed  through  the  house, 
and  the  front  rows  began  to  settle  themselves  quietly; 
but  many  people  farther  back  were  still  standing,  and 


YESTERDAY.  217 

some  jumped  up  again  in  the  second  between  Benson's 
going  aside  and  Harry  Sundon's  stepping  forward.  Harry 
was  to  begin  the  scene  with  a  phrase  of  soliloquy;  now, 
taking  his  easy  tone  with  the  deprecatory  touch  in  it,  he 
added  this  preface: 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  after  Mr.  Benson's  assurance, 
the  only  reason  that  could  lose  us  your  support  would  be 
that  we  are  boring  you;  now  I  do  not  think  we  have 
treated  you  so  unfairly  as  that,  and  I  believe  you  will 
bear  me  out  in  my  conviction." 

Thereupon,, as  required  by  the  play,  he  turned  to  ad- 
dress Waveney,  who  then  entered.  He  could  scarcely 
hear  the  sound  of  his  own  voice  for  the  applause  that  rang 
out  to  answer  him;  and  by  the  time  Waveney 's  speech 
began,  the  crowd  was  listening  without  thought  of  further 
alarm. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Waveney,  when  they  were  behind  the 
scenes  again,  "how  Grace  took  it  I  didn't  dare  look 
round  much,  for  if  I  had  got  out,  it  might  have  spoilt 
everything  after  all." 

' '  Then  you  didn't  see  ?  " 

"Did  you?" 

"Yes.  Miss  Delahay — isn't  that  her  name? — sat  still 
and  looked  as  if  nothing  was  the  matter  really.  The 
pretty  schoolgirl  squeezed  her  hand  once,  turned  pale  and 
stared  about,  but  kept  in  her  place." 


2l8  YESTERDAY. 

"Little  Miss  Helen  has  plenty  of  pluck;  her  father's 
o\vn  child." 

"Just  so;  I've  heard  of  the  Major  in  my  own  time. 
But  if  the  old  lady's  his  mother,  it's  a  pity  she's  not  more 
like  him.  His  daring  in  the  war  upset  her  nerves  once 
for  all,  maybe;  anyhow,  she  was  on  her  feet,  and  all  but 
out  into  the  aisle,  when  Miss  Delahay  turned  and  spoke 
to  her,  quick  but  steady,  took  hold  of  her,  and  drew  her 
back  again.  With  that  that  whole  row  and  more  subsided. 
It  made  things  a  deal  easier  for  you  and  me.  Miss  Dela- 
hay, ought  to  have  a  vote  of  thanks  from  the  whole  house, 
by  rights.  You  must  make  her  our  compliments,  any- 
way. " 

As  soon  as  he  could  get  away,  Waveney  went  home  to 
to  see  that  his  wife  and  Thyra  had  heard  no  exaggerated 
story  of  the  panic;  Sundon  was  detained  on  business,  but 
one  could  easily  answer  for  both.  When  he  came  to  his 
own  door,  there  was  Grace  ahead  of  him,  on  the  same 
errand. 

"  I  won't  come  in,  since  you  are  here,"  she  said.  "  I 
am  due  at  Mrs.  Romaine's;  we  have  dinner  company. 
Tell  Ina  I  will  come  to-morrow." 

"Good-bye  then,  you  best  of  aids;  if  you  hadn't  done 
your  part  as  moderator,  I  should  have  a  story  to  tell,  in- 
stead of  getting  it  nicely  spoilt;  you  have  the  thanks  of  all 
of  us,  and  more  when  we  meet  again." 


YESTERDAY.  219 

"I!"  she  laughed  as  she  went. 

Grace  had 'named  no  time,  but  Ina  somehow  under- 
stood she  should  not  see  her  till  late  in  the  Sunday  after- 
noon. Instead,  Grace  made  her  appearance  quite  early. 
Now  Ina  was  expecting  Harry  and  Thyra,  who  had  a  way  ot 
looking  in  at  the  Waveneys'  for  a  few  minutes  before  their 
Sunday  afternoon  walk.  This  was  embarrassing:  the  con- 
versation at  the  Romaines'  concerning  Harry  had  only  taken 
his  professional  qualities  into  account,  and  no  mention 
had  been  made  of  Thyra  at  all.  Helen  Romaine's  pres- 
ence had  been  a  check  on  discussion,  such  as  Ina  felt  she 
ought  to  have  with  Grace  before  venturing  to  bring  her  in 
contact  with  the  Sundons.  Yet  this  new  kinswoman 
seemed  of  all  people  the  one  with  whom  a  matter  of  scan- 
dal were  most  unsuitable  to  talk  over.  Besides,  Ina  feared 
Grace  would  disapprove  her  own  conduct;  and  though  she 
should  not  change  it  for  that,  the  idea  hurt  her.  Still  she 
got  up  her  courage  to  say  at  once, 

"Grace,  you  may  happen  to  meet  the  Sundons  here; 
unless  you  tell  me  immediately  you  wish  not,  and  then 
perhaps  I  can  manage  to  prevent  it.  You  mayn't  know, 
but  their  marriage  was  a  scandal.  Still  I  can  assure  you, 
ever  since  Thyra  has  been  Mr.  Sundon's  wife,  she  has  been 
perfectly  well  conducted;  she  has  suffered  a  great  deal  and 
is  sincerely  penitent,  I  do  believe — " 

With  that  there  was  a  timid  knock  at  the  door. 


220  YESTERDAY. 

"There  she  is!"  said  Ina. 

"Tell  her  to  come  in,"  said  Grace. 

"Come  in!"  Ina  called. 

Thyra,  advancing  with  a  smile  for  her  hostess,  drew 
back  again,  flushing,  stumbling,  with  hardly  breath  to 
exclaim,  "Why,  it  is  you  !  "  as  Grace  rose. 

Ina  had  no  reason  to  be  alarmed.  Grace  saw  Thyra, 
worn  and  faded  still  in  spite  of  partial  recovery,  and 
painfully  shy  and  uncertain  in  manner  instead  of  incon- 
siderately open.  She  did  not  stop  to  ask  if  this  unhap- 
py self-consciousness  were  shown  towards  the  world  or 
only  towards  the  one  that  knew  most;  she  went  to 
Thyra,  holding  out  both  her  hands. 

"Yes,  it  is  I;  you  are  not  mistaken;  I  am  glad  to 
be  not  forgotten." 

"Oh,  I  oughtn't  to  speak  to  you  again — I'm  not  fit 
to  come  near  you  since — " 

' '  If  Ina  receives  you,  should  not  that  be  enough  for 
me?  In  all  these  years  she  must  know  you  belter  than  I." 

Thyra  could  not  speak.  Grace  and  Ina  made  her  sit 
down  between  them. 

"You  two  are  too  good  to  me,"  she  murmured  at 
last;  "I  don't  know  What  to  do."  Then  to  Grace: 
"Are  you  going  to  stay  long  in  town?  You  mustn't 
come  to  see  me,  or  I  to  see  you;  Mrs.  Romaine  wouldn't 
like  it,  and  it  might  make  you  trouble.  But  I  shall  see 


YESTERDAY.  221 

you  here  sometimes.  You're  not  changed  at  all,  but 
I —  Don't  say  anything,  or  I  shall  get  crying,  and  I 
shan't  be  fit  to  go  out —  Who's  that  now  ?  " 

' '  Only  Tony, "  said  Ina. 

Tony  it  was;  but  Harry  Sundon  also  with  him.  Grace 
had  no  time  to  prepare  herself  before  her  cousin,  look- 
ing quickly  round  and  thinking  he  understood  matters, 
introduced  his  companion. 

There  was  no  escape;  but,  to  Harry  at  least,  none 
seemed  needed.  Grace  bowed,  and  said  "very  happy 
to  meet  you,"  which  if  it  meant  nothing,  at  least  proved 
she  was  not  going  to  cut  him  this  time.  He  answered, 
"Ah,  it  is  you,  Miss  Delahay,  that  we  have  to  thank  for 
your  help  yesterday  afternoon;  I  saw  what  an  admirable 
influence  you  have  over  those  about  you." 

"Your  own  reaches  much  farther;  if  you  praise  mine, 
yours  deserves  much  more  from  us." 

This  was  said  not  as  one  makes  a  compliment,  yet 
not  unwillingly.  The  conversation  then  became  general, 
and  dealt  with  trifles,  though  in  a  half-serious  tone.  Soon 
Harry  declared  that  Thyra  must  have  her  walk  before 
the  sun  sank  any  lower;  and  they  took  their  leave.  He 
would  rather  have  outstaid  Grace,  but  thought  it  not 
best. 

Grace  gave  a  long  sigh  when  they  were  out  of  hearing; 
before  the  Waveneys  she  would  not  put  her  mingled  feel- 


222  YESTERDAY. 

ings  into  words.  In  their  presence  and  poor  Thyra's,  she 
had  not  felt  able  to  take  up  the  position  towards  Harry 
she  had  held  at  their  last  meeting.  Once  the  change 
was  made,  the  conviction  dawned  on  her  that  Tyne 
had  judged  the  case  more  justly  than  she.  Besides,  was 
there  not  some  difference  in  Harry?  To-day  he  seemed 
really  like  a  gentleman,  not  as  if  he  only  played  that 
part  when  he  fancied  it.  But  now  Ina  was  saying, 
"So  you  used  to  know  her?  How  small  the  world 
is  !  What  was  she  like  then  ?  " 

"A  pretty  child,"  said  Grace.  "Poor  thing  !  Helen 
Romaine  is  twice  the  woman  already  that  she  was  in  those 
days. " 

"You  never  knew  Sundon,  I  suppose?"  asked  Wave- 
ney;  a  question  Grace  was  glad  to  hear.  She  had  dreaded 
Harry's  version  of  their  acquaintance;  that  he  had  made 
none  was  reassuring. 

"I  have  met  him  sometimes,"  she  admitted.  "Your 
uncle  and  Mr.  Sundon  were  great  friends,  and  they  were 
together  constantly  before  poor  Mont  went  abroad.  But 
I  did  not  think  he  would  remember  me.  By  the  way, 
how  does  he  treat  his  wife  ? " 

"There  couldn't  be  a  better  husband,"  said  Ina  warmly. 
"If  people  say  anything  to  the  contrary,  it's  only  one  of 
those  stories  they're  always  making  up  about  all  of  us. 
If  there  are  any  other  people  that  the  world  talks  more  of 


YESTK/tn.-IY.  223 

and  knows  less  of  than  actors  and  actresses,  I  should  like 
to  know  it." 

"It's  possible,  to  be  sure,  between  ourselves,"  Tony 
allowed,  "that  he  mayn't  have  been  always  quite  as  de- 
voted, before  that  fever  she  had,  when  Ina  and  Doctor 
Belden  helped  take  care  of  her;  but  since — " 

' '  Do  you  know  Doctor  Belden  too  ? "  Grace  could  not 
keep  herself  from  interrupting.  "Florence  wrote  me 
something — how  was  it  ?  " 

"  Don't  we ?"  answered  Ina.  "Why,  he  was  one  of 
my  California  friends.  One  of  the  best  and  cleverest  men 
that  ever  lived.  It's  a  shame  he  don't  get  along  faster,  but 
he  will  yet.  He's  had  so  much  to  pull  him  back;  he  has 
even  tried  to  pay  off  his  father's  debts.  To  be  sure  the 
Ensors,  who  were  the  chief  creditors,  wouldn't  take  a 
cent. " 

' '  So  Florence  says. " 

"  They  ought  to  be  generous,  for  since  they  came  to  San 
Francisco  they  are  a  hundred  times  better  off  than  he  is; 
people  who  can  afford  to  keep  such  horses,  and  so  many 
of  them  !  Now  about  Mrs.  Sundon,  it  happened  this 
way — "  and  Ina  told  the  story  as  far  as  she  knew  it;  im- 
perfectly enough,  fortunately  for  her  good  opinion  of 
Harry,  for  Felix  had  never  enlightened  her  or  any  one  as 
to  the  earlier  part  of  it,  and  she  believed  the  attempt  at 
suicide  a  mere  fiction  of  Thyra's  delirium.  The  strong 


224  YESTERDAY. 

point  of  this  version,  therefore,  was  Felix's  admirable  man- 
agement of  the  case,  which  did  not  fail  to  interest  her 
hearer. 

Grace,  through  her  correspondence  with  Florence, 
could  know  Felix  always  the  same,  as  much  to  be  be- 
lieved in  and  relied  on  as  at  first;  but  this  new  testi- 
mony to  his  worth,  given  with  a  living  voice,  not  the 
second-hand  of  pen  and  paper,  lent  her  strong  com- 
fort, and  even  a  sense  of  physical  well-being  and 
warmth,  like  a  kindly  fire  on  a  winter's  day.  True, 
Ina  had  not  seen  him  for  several  years,  while  the  last 
mail  had  brought  Grace  a  California  letter;  still  this 
account  of  him  seemed  the  freshest.  She  had  felt  on 
their  first  meeting  that  Ina  and  she  were  to  be  friends; 
but  so  much  more  was  as  unexpected  as  welcome.  As 
for  the  Sundons,  that  should  not  interfere.  Since  it 
was  plain  that  Sundon  respected  these  transparent  and 
genial  natures,  Grace  would  not  disturb  them;  she 
would  bury  her  recollections  and  just  repulsions  within 
herself,  as  long  as  he  gave  no  cause  for  fresh  disgust. 

Meanwhile  Thyra  and  Harry  had  been  talking  of  her. 

"  I  didn't  think  she  would  be  there,  or  I  wouldn't  have 
gone,"  said  Thyra;  "but  she  was  just  the  same  to  me  as 
she  used  to  be;  and  to  you  too." 

"She  may  know  how  to  forget;  she  certainly  knows 
how  to  behave." 


YESTERDAY.  22$ 

"I  didn't  remember  she  was  so  pretty;  prettier  than  she 
was  before;  she  hasn't  gone  off  the  way  I  have." 

'•'  You'll  catch  up  to  her  yet,  puss;  you  don't  know  how 
much  better  you  are  looking  this  winter:  people  get  so 
used  to  their  own  faces.  I've  only  just  found  out  how  old 
and  fat  I  am." 

"Nonsense,  Harry,  you're  nothing  of  the  kind.  You 
talk  as  if  you  were  that  man  going  round  the  corner 
there — "  a  grotesque  ancient  mountain  of  a  German-born 
citizen,  at  whose  appearance  it  was  impossible  not  to  be 
amused.  Harry  certainly  was  not  boyish  in  figure  or  face, 
but  he  was  far  yet  from  such  an  age,  and  not  likely  to 
reach  such  ponderosity. 

He  met  the  Waveneys  again  with  some  anxiety;  but  his 

keenest  watchfulness  could  detect  no  change  or  coolness 

«^. 
in  their  manner  to  him.     The  only  thing  that  suggested 

an  allusion  to  former  days  was  a  casual  mention  that  Mrs. 
Bishop  (with  whom  they  were  not  on  very  good  terms) 
was  reported  not  to  be  pleased  with  Florida,  where  she 
was  wintering. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

HELEN  ROMAINE  had  her  own  young  companions, 
with  whom  she  spent  most  of  her  time;  so  Grace, 
being  free,  saw  a  great  deal  of  Ina.  At  the  Waveneys, 
she  sometimes  met  the  Sundons,  though  always  in  the 
same  accidental  way.  and  not  markedly  often.  Thyra, 
if  she  came  in,  frequently  slipped  out,  fearing  to  disturb 
the  new  friendship.  Harry  did  not  follow  his  wife's  lead; 
Grace  interested  him  too  much,  though  in  a  fashion  by 
no  means  a  thorough  pleasure.  How  well  he  should 
have  liked  it,  to  be  able  to  meet  such  a  charming  wo- 
man as  she  was  now,  without  any  recollections  between 
them;  easily,  as  an  agreeable  stranger!  Instead,  he  must 
feel  a  disposition  to  justify  himself  and  a  conviction  that 
the  effort  was  hopeless;  an  obligation  to  appear  at  his 
best,  and  a  belief  that  it  was  no  use.  "As  long  as  we 
live,"  he  said  to  himself,  "she  will  think  me  a  shabby 
fellow."  Yet  once  or  twice,  dwelling  on  some  saying 
of  hers,  he  imagined  she  might  have  forgiven  him.  To 
ask  her  directly  if  she  had,  though,  he  feared  would 


YESTERDAY.  227 

seem  to  her  a  fresh  insult;  and  he  could  make  no  cer- 
tain guess  at  her  feelings,  still  screened  from  him  by 
her  old  reserve.  Had  he  really  ever  seen  her  without 
it?  And  even  then —  Would  nothing  ever  happen  to 
prove  that  she  had  any  strong  emotions  of  her  own, 
not  merely  sympathy  or  repulsion  towards  others?  Why 
he  wanted  to  know  that,  he  did  not  ask  himself;  but  he 
was  soon  as  eager  to  settle  that  question,  as  the  other. 

One  day  Ina  was  asking  Grace  what  she  thought  of 
a  great  musician  from  abroad,  who  gave  "piano  recitals" 
that  winter.  Now  music  was  the  thing  of  all  others  in 
which  Grace  showed  most  interest  She  played  well 
herself;  Harry  had  heard  her  long  ago  at  Mrs.  Bish- 
op's, and  of  late  at  the  Waveney's,  though  she  was  shy 
about  it,  for  fear,  he  could  see,  of  tiring  an  audience 
rather  indifferent.  He  knew  nothing  of  music  himself; 
but  he  liked  to  watch  her  face  when  she  was  at  the 
piano;  she  seemed  a  little  off  her  guard  then.  Now, 
as  she  was  describing  to  Ina  what  she  had  heard,  it 
was  plain  it  affected  her  strongly.  Harry  determined 
he  would  see  if  the  musician  did  not  make  her  drop 
her  mask  for  once. 

He  carried  out  his  plan,  assuring  himself  of  the  time 
Grace  would  go,  and  of  a  seat  where  he  could  observe 
her  without  her  noticing  it.  Thyra  was  to  have  ac- 
companied him;  nothing  but  Chopin's  music  was  to  be 


228  YESTERDAY. 

played,  and  though  she  had  thought  the  other  concerts 
were  too  "classical"  in  programme,  she  believed  there 
were  to  be  pretty  waltzes  and  marches  this  once,  that 
anybody  could  "understand."  But  she  had  a  bad  head- 
ache, and  he  went  alone.  He  was  there  before  Grace; 
but  she  came  in  soon  with  the  Romaines  and  some 
other  ladies  to  whom  she  was  talking  so  busily  that 
she  looked  his  way  without  seeing  him.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments the  concert  began,  and  she  was  absorbed  in  the 
music. 

Even  without  her,  Harry  thought,  the  occasion  would 
not  have  been  a  dull  one.  The  audience  interested  him, 
to  begin  with;  it  was  peculiar.  There  were  few  men;  the 
day,  being  early  in  the  week,  excluded  with  its  business 
claims  many  of  the  Saturday  afternoon  people  besides  those 
who  would  not  care  to  be  present  now.  The  tickets  were 
a  trifle  high-priced;  and  though  there  appeared  a  strong 
force  of  young  girls  and  women  costumed  with  the  painful 
care  which  tells  of  small  .means, — Harry,  who  was  much 
better  off,  felt  some  compunction,  thinking  how  they  must 
have  saved  out  of  their  earnings  to  pay  for  their  seats  and 
the  scores,  the -leaves  of  which  they  turned  so  cautiously, 
to  avoid  the  distracting  rustle  of  an  opera  libretto, — the 
majority  was  one  of  handsomely-dressed  and  well-dressed 
women;  not  vulgar  show,  but  absolute  elegance  prevailing. 
At  first  Harry  supposed  these  had  come  for  the  fashion  of 


YESTERDAY.  229 

the  thing;  but  he  soon  read  his  mistake  in  their  faces. 
Many  of  them  he  had  seen  before,  with  their  street  look 
of  intelligence  and  readiness  for  life.  Now  the  keen  feel- 
ing hidden  under  thought,  the  fine  nervous  emotions,  in- 
clining to  sadness,  but  full  of  tremulous  pleasure,  stole 
forth  in  those  delicate  lips,  in  those  brilliant  eyes.  Not 
such  strong  and  lively  excitement,  perhaps,  as  he  could 
cause  in  his  own  audiences;  but  something  subtle  and  fine- 
strained,  suggesting  an  unknown  world;  the  sight  of  such 
sentiment  was  in  itself  a  new  experience. 

Harry  had  been  inclined  at  first  to  laugh  at  the  musi- 
cian who  wrought  this  spell;  he  was  such  a  singular  being, 
with  his  odd  face — fine  in  effect,  but  irregular  and  unusual 
in  detail — framed  in  a  mane  of  long  dusky  hair  that  he 
shook  back  when  he  made  that  queer  bow,  the  motion  of 
which  was  like  a  wild  creature's  stretching  itself,  and  his 
strange  walk,  setting  his  feet  down  fiat  as  the  bears  do.  In 
fiery  passages  he  swayed  and  trembled  violently  all  over,  and 
clawed  the  piano  as  if  he  would  tear  out  the  strings.  But 
when  that  everyday  instrument,  from  which  most  people 
expect  no  marvels,  yielded  under  his  hand  sounds  so  in- 
explicably beautiful  and  of  such  inexplicable  influence 
over  his  hearers,  the  man  was  too  powerful  to  be  absurd. 
Here  was  something  to  be  recognized  as  a  great  and  gen- 
uine force.  F.ven  when,  in  his  resting-times,  he  stood 
by  the  piano,  half  turning  away  from  his  audience,  and 


230  YESTERDAY. 

looking  up  at  the  ceiling  in  a  weary  excitement,  it  was 
too  natural  an  attitude  to  call  for  the  blame  of  affectation. 
All  this,  however,  Harry  noticed  only  by  the  way. 
Grace  was  his  main  stud)'.  She  was  at  her  best  in  every 
detail  of  costume  and  appearance.  Her  dress  was  of  that 
dark  wine-red  which  becomes  almost  every  woman,  but 
her  wearing  it  made  it  seem  to  him  as  if  no  other  had  a 
right  to  it  but  she;  her  bonnet  had  feathers  of  soft  white 
and  gray  shades  emphasizing  "the  sweet  brownness  of  her 
eyes  "  and  hair.  Those  eyes  now  sparkled,  now  grew  dim; 
once  she  put  her  handkerchief  to  them,  after  a  tender  thril- 
ling strain,  full  of  regrets  and  longings.  Her  lips  were  set  a 
moment,  then  parted  when  a  stirring  cry,  a  melody  of  fire, 
rang  out  from  the  keys,  as  if  she  too  had  uttered  it.  Her 
color  went  and  came;  she  made  no  effort  to  control  her 
face  or  hide  her  emotions.  This  did  not  make  her  singu- 
lar among  the  women  about  her;  they  were  all  in  the  same 
case.  What  was  special  to  her  was  a  certain  rapt  expres- 
sion, the  music  seeming  to  lift  her  out  of  herself  into  an- 
other region.  Sometimes  there  was  a  far-off  look  in  her 
eyes,  as  if  she  saw  some  image  beyond  the  range  of  actual 
vision;  again  they  shone  strangely,  as  if  the  imagined  crea- 
ture unknown  to  others  had  come  up  close  at  hand  with  a 
kindly  greeting.  Once  she  caught  Harry's  glance,  and 
bowed  absently;  his  fears  that  she  should  think  him  impu- 
dently staring  were  dispelled,  but  on  the  other  hand  he 


YESTERDAY.  231 

had  an  annoying  sense  of  being  neglected;  then  he  was 
angry  with  himself  for  a  conceited  fellow;  and  then  he  for- 
got everything  but  watching  her. 

When  the  concert  was  over, — whether  it  had  been  long 
or  short,  he  could  not  tell, — he  rose  as  she  did;  but  then 
he  drew  back  and  waited  till  there  was  no  chance  of  his  re- 
joining her.  He  had  discovered  more  than  he  expected 
or  wished, — not  concerning  her,  but  himself. 

"Well,  how  did  you  like  it?"  said  Thyra,  when  he 
came  home.  "Was  it  stupid,  or  was  it  nice?" 

"  Neither;  it  was  wonderful.  I  don't  think  I  ever  heard 
a  piano  before;  and  now  I  never  want  to  hear  another,  for 
nobody  can  make  it  the  same  thing  as  this  man." 

Yet  he  knew  the  impression  of  the  music  and  the  musi- 
cian would  grow  dim  with  him;  while  that  other,  the  one 
not  to  be  spoken,  he  feared  might  remain. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

THE  next  morning,  as  Harry  left  the  house,  going 
to  a  rehearsal,  he  saw  Grace  walking  along  the 
street  just  in  front  of  him.  He  came  up  with  her  as 
she  stopped  to  post  a  letter  in  a  corner  box, — one  of 
those  missives  to  Florence  that  Felix  would  see;  but 
Harry  knew  nothing  of  that.  She  was  alone,  and  some 
isolating  atmosphere  seemed  to  encircle  her.  Yet  the 
sense  of  remoteness  he  felt  was  a  relief  to  him.  Yes- 
terday she  had  unconsciously  started  him  on  a  train  of 
thought  he  knew  to  be  dangerous.  Long  ago  he  had 
discovered  that  the  generalization  about  duties  steadily 
performed  becoming  pleasures  and  second  nature  through 
habit  had  a  much  less  universal  application  than  the 
common  run  of  theorists  believe,  and  that  quite  as  often 
the  converse  took  place;  the  spirit,  compelled  by  cir- 
cumstances into  action  alien  to  it,  heaping  up  impulses 
of  resistance  which,  once  strong  enough,  broke  out  in 
some  revenge  on  itself  or  others.  To  a  man  of  his  tem- 
perament, this  last  looked  much  the  most  likely  result 


YESTERDAY.  233 

of  the  two.  Notwithstanding,  he  had  never  applied  it 
to  his  own  case  before;  and  even  now  he  was  struggling 
against  his  interpretation  of  it  But  there  was  Grace, 
and  their  ways  were  in  the  same  direction  for  a  few 
streets;  if  it  had  not  been  so,  would  he  not  have  changed 
his,  no  matter  how  cold  she  seemed? 

How  was  it  too  that  soon  they  came  to  speak  of  Tyne, 
who  had  not  been  mentioned  between  them  on  any  for- 
mer meeting  ?  He  must  have  begun  it,  but  she  had  not 
avoided  it  They  had  turned  into  a  cross-street  all  of 
dwelling-houses,  where  at  that  hour  there  was  scarcely  a 
passer-by;  certainly  no  one  near  when  he  found  himself 
saying: 

"I  never  had  such  a  friend;  he  understood  me  bet- 
ter than  I  do  myself;  and  if  I  had  done  what  he  meant 
for  me  I  should  be  more  of  a  man  than  I  am  now.  I 
should  have  loved  you." 

A  speech  worse  than  mistaken !  He  saw  her  harden 
as  once  he  had  seen  her  before.  ' '  You  do  not  change  !  " 
she  said. 

"Don't  misunderstand!"  he  answered,  appealingly; 
it  was  not  the  same  case  he  was  pleading  now,  indeed. 
"It's  only  too  natural  that  you  should;  I  have  given  you 
reason  enough  formerly  for  you  to  think  1  could  insult 
you;  but  I  cannot,  for  all  that.  You  go  away — to  mor- 
row, is  it?  I  don't  know  when  I  shall  see  you  again. 


234  YESTERDAY. 

Might  you  not  forgive  my  betraying  an  enthusiasm  for 
you  that  expects  nothing?" 

"If  you  wish  to  keep  it  so,  we  had  better  bid  good- 
bye at  once."  She  was  not  ungentle,  yet  there  was  a  de- 
cision in  her  manner  that  hurt  him  cruelly.  "I  go 
to-morrow;  that  is  my  part,  and  I  believe  you  know 
yours.  Good-bye."  They  had  come  to  an  avenue;  she 
turned  up  it,  while  his  road  lay  down  it.  The  bright 
winter  sun  shone  for  both,  but  with  a  difference. 

He  was  rather  snappish  at  rehearsal;  Benson  wondered 
if  he  had  been  drinking  again;  but  by  the  time  he  reached 
home  he  had  recovered  his  temper. 

"Grace  Delahay  has  been  over  to  bid  Ina  good-bye," 
Thyra  said  when  he  came  in.  ' '  I'm  sorry  to  have  her 

go-" 

"Don't  you  feel  well?  "said  he,  resolutely  putting 
that  other  image  aside.  "You  don't  look  as  bright  as 
you  can  most  days." 

"Oh,   I'm  well  enough." 

On  the  morrow,  when  he  was  again  coming  home,  he 
thought  there  would  he  no  harm  in  knowing  if  Grace 
really  had  left  town.  He  rang  at  Mrs.  Romaine's  door 
and  inquired  of  the  servant.  Yes,  Miss  Delahay  and 
Miss  Romaine  had  started  for  Washington  that  morning. 
He  went  into  his  own  home  with  a  blank  feeling. 

Thyra  was  sitting  by  the  fire,  with  the  photograph  of 


YESTERDAY.  235 

the  little  Waveney  girls,  which  their  mother  had  given 
her,  in  her  hand;  she  was  studying  it  more  intently  than 
she  often  did  anything. 

"A  pretty  picture  that  is,"  said  he,  taking  a  chair 
beside  her;  "much  better  than  those  things  generally." 

' '  They  are  so  pretty  themselves, "  Thyra  said.  ' '  I 
wish  either  of  them  was  ours.  Do  you  think,"  shyly, 
"you'd  like  that?" 

"Why  shouldn't  I?     But  Madam  Ina  might  object." 

"  But — such  a  one  of  our  own — it's  possible — it's  more 
than  possible — it's  likely  to  be." 

"There's  something  to  think  ahead  about  then,  dear." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

IF  the  every-day  course  of  Harry's  life  had  been  a  mo- 
ment disturbed  to  his  eyes,  it  now  seemed  more  fixed 
than  ever.  But  who  can  guard  against  all  accidents,  01 
limit  their  results?  A  slip  on  the  stairs,  a  trifling  chill, 
may  happen  to  anybody,  and  the  consequence  be  un- 
noticeable,  yet  for  Thyra  this  nothing  meant  too  much; 
the  loss  of  her  child,  then  her  own  death. 

Harry  found  himself  alone  in  the  world,  at  first  with  a 
bitter  sense  of  want  in  having  nothing  left  him  of  the 
clinging  affection  that  had  long  been  a  part  of  his  life; 
then  rose  up  a  feeling  of  freedom,  which  seemed  in- 
human to  him,  but  irresistible.  He  might  love  Grace 
now  without  question.  That  thought,  once  it  shaped 
itself,  was  always  with  him.  No  one  suspected  it;  he 
had  so  much  at  stake  that  he  grew  very  cautious.  It 
would  not  do  to  move  too  fast;  if  he  had  been  shocked 
at  himself  at  first,  how  should  he  appear  to  Grace,  if 
he  spoke  early?  above  all  after  those  few  words  at  their 
last  meeting  ?  So  he  waited,  outwardly  very  quiet, 


YESTERDAY.  237 

though  many  a  day  he  felt  as  if  the  next  must  be  the 
last  of  his  silence. 

The  Romaines  left  Washington  for  the  summer,  going 
to  the  White  Mountains;  Grace  was  of  their  party.  The 
Waveneys,  during  the  hot  weather,  established  themselves 
in  a  nook  of  the  Maine  coast;  Harry  joined  them. 
At  first  the  house  at  the  beach  was  quite  full,  but  as 
the  summer  began  to  wane,  people  thinned  out.  As 
soon  as  there  was  room,  Ina  undertook  to  carry  out  a 
long-cherished  idea,  and  wrote  to  Grace,  proposing  that 
she  should  come  and  spend  at  least  a  week  by  the  sea. 

When  Harry  heard  of  this,  he  took  alarm  at  once. 
"If  she  should  refuse  on  my  account!  She  will."  He 
too  wrote  a  letter,  which  went  by  the  same  mail  as  Ina's. 

' '  I  know  beforehand  how  you  will  receive  any  word 
from  me,  with  what  a  shrinking,  a  repulsion;  I  know 
my  conduct  has  been  too  often  fairly  liable  to  the  worst 
interpretations  (though  yet  they  would  have  been  mis- 
taken sometimes);  and  yet  to-day  I  have  to  write,  'Do 
not  stay  away  because  I  am  here.'  It  pledges  you  to 
nothing,  and  it  means  everything  to  me.  I  cannot  bear 
to  have  you  draw  back;  if  you  will  not  come,  I  must 
follow  my  letter.  Believe  me,  if  Thyra  had  lived,  I 
should  never  have  troubled  you;  and  I  don't  think 
even  that  I  should  have  dared  to  ask  you  to  be  a 
mother  to  a  child  of  hers;  but  now  I  have  nothing  left 


238  YRSTEKDAY. 

me.  Do  not  think  of  me  as  having  wished  for  the 
chance  of  being  free  to  love  you;  this  once  you  would 
judge  me  too  hardly.  Think  only  that  I  do  love  you, 
and  not  as  I  ever  loved  before;  for  you  are  above  all 
other  women,  and  a  different  love  is  yours  by  right. 
This  sounds  hackneyed  enough,  but  it  is  as  real  as 
the  sunrise,  an  old  story  that  is  always  new  and  that 
one's  life  depends  on.  I  know  you  will  not  hear  of  this 
at  once,  if  you  do  at  all;  still  do  not  dismiss  me  at  first 
and  by  letter.  I  cannot  take  a  refusal  in  writing  only, 
or  now.  But  should  you  come,  even  then  I  only  ask  for 
time;  I  will  say  no  more  till  you  have  seen  that  I  am 
not  what  I  was,  and  that  you  can  forgive  me  the  past." 

He  scribbled  off  this  missive  as  fast  as  he  could;  he 
was  not  at  all  satisfied  with  it,  but  did  not  dare  retouch 
it.  "Suppose  I  did,  and  she  thought  I  was  playing  off 
my  old  stage  speeches  with  her !  "  There  was  nothing 
factitious  about  his  feeling,  he  knew;  then  how  horrible 
it  would  be  if  she  imagined  so  ! 

In  due  time  he  had  his  answer. 

' '  I  cannot  come,  and  it  were  best  not  I  do  forgive 
you;  but  there  can  never  be  any  love  between  us,  believe 
me.  So  I  will  not  torture  you  with  a  long  argument; 
I  will  only  say  we  had  best  not  meet  This  sounds 
hard,  I  know,  but  it  is  the  only  kind  way  for  me." 

There  was  a  blot  on  the  signature,  beyond  doubt  a 


YRSTRKDA  Y.  259 

tear.  If  Harry  had  only  known  for  whom !  but  having 
no  hint  of  that  secret,  he  took  it  as  suggesting  hope, 
in  spite  of  her  words.  "She  distrusts  me,  but  she 
doesn't  hate  me.  Now  I  will  go  to  her  myself." 

He  had  been  reading  his  letter  on  the  veranda  of  the 
house;  Ina  sat  not  far  off,  with  a  pile  of  correspondence. 
Suddenly  she  turned  to  him,  exclaiming,  "Now  that  is 
too  bad  !  Grace  isn't  coming  after  all.  Mrs.  Bishop  has 
been  ill,  and  wants  her,  and  she  says  she  must  go.  Let 
me  see?  what's  the  date?  she  must  be  there  now.  If  I 

could   have   written   sooner,   and   caught  her   first !     So 

• 

provoking!     I  hope  you  have  better  news." 

"Not  so  good  as  it  might  be.  A  business  errand, 
that  sends  me  down  to  New  York  to-morrow." 

Early  in  the  morning  therefore  Harry  started.  He  had 
not  been  gone  many  hours,  before  in  walked  Felix,  to 
Ina's  great  astonishment;  for  he  had  sent  no  word,  and 
there  was  no  reason  to  suppose  him  anywhere  on  this 
side  of  the  continent  She  happened  to  be  alone;  her 
husband  and  the  children  were  on  the  beach,  and  she  had 
not  followed  them  at  once,  having  stopt  for  a  bit  of  mend- 
ing about  one  of  the  little  dresses,  which  if  taken  in  time 
would  not  delay  her  two  minutes. 

"How  well  you  look,  Mrs.  Waveney,"  Felix  said; 
"this  is  perfect  air.  It  is  no  wonder  Grace  Delahay  joined 
you;  is  she  with  you  yet?" 


240  YESTERDAY. 

4 'Why,  Doctor,  she  hasn't  been  here,  and  isn't  coming! 
She  is  with  Mrs.  Bishop.  I'm  so  disappointed." 

"Why,  I  met  an  old  acquaintance  of  ours,  a  Mrs.  Wa- 
ters, who  told  me,  that  when  she  left  here,  you  certainly 
expected  Grace." 

"That  stupid  woman!  She  always  gets  everything 
wrong. " 

"Have  you  seen  Grace  lately?"  He  ventured,  with 
Ina,  to  use  her  name  freely. 

"  Not  since  winter.     She  has  not  changed,  only  grown 

more  charming,   my  husband  says,   who  remembers  her 

• 

longer  than  I,  you  know.  What  a  pity  it  is  !  here  you 
have  missed  her  and  our  friend  Mr.  Sundon  into  the 
bargain. " 

She  had  not  meant  to  say  this,  for  she  saw  there  was 
some  storm  in  the  air;  but  it  slipped  off  her  tongue  in  her 
embarrassment.  Felix  looked  as  if  he  had  only  just  come 
on  from  San  Francisco,  and  been  traveling  night  and  day; 
was  it  all  for  Grace?  He  enlightened  her  at  once. 

"  Where  has  Sundon  gone  ?  To  see  her  ?  That  would 
be  too  much  ?  " 

"Good  Heavens,  Doctor,  I  never  thought  of  that!  I 
wonder  if  it  could  be  so.  He  said  he  was  going  to  town 
yn.  business,  but  nothing  more  positive." 

"He's  impudent  enough,  if  he  fancied.  How  could 
you  let  them  meet  last  winter?" 


YESTERDAY.  241 

"What  should  I  have  done?  It, was  accidental,  and 
she  made  no  objections  afterwards.  My  husband's  best 
friend — a  man  that  ever  since  I  have  known  him  has  really 
been  blameless — Doctor,  you  are  not  fair.  Nothing  that 
was  said  or  done  then  could  give  any  color  to  your  idea. 
He  never,  since  you  remember  him,  faltered  in  his  care 
for  Thyra;  and  now  she  is  dead, — why  not,  after  all?" 

' '  A  man  so  hopelessly  coarse-grained  has  no  right  to 
come  near  Grace." 

"You  don't  do  him  justice.  He  is  a  gentleman  at 
heart " 

"He  couldn't  but  show  himself  so  to  vou;  but  to 
a  wife — " 

"He  never  drinks  now;  that  was  what  spoiled  him  once. 
Anybody  might  trust  him  to-day." 

"Think  of  him  and  Grace  together;  does  not  it  strike 
you  as  a  discord  ?  " 

•"As  he  is  now,   they  might  be  in  harmony  yet." 

' '  Then  at  least  they  are  not  so  now  !  " 

"I  don't  know;  but  I  should  think  it  would  take  him 
a  good  while  to  win  her,  if  he  can  at  all." 

"  Have  you  talked  to  her  about  him?  Does  she  un- 
derstand him  ?  "  To  himself:  "For  I  believe  you  don't" 

"She  has  always  avoided  discussing  his  past  or  his  char- 
acter. It  may  be  only  her  dislike  of  scandal;  such  things 
seem  to  give  her  real  pain  to  think  or  speak  of.  When  I 


242  YESTERDAY. 

have  mentioned  him  to  her,  I  could  not  help  putting  him 
in  a  favorable  light,  because  truly  I  see  him  in  one.  She 
never  tried  to  set  me  right  with  objections.  But  she  never 
expressed  any  liking  for  him  personally;  only  admired  his 
acting. " 

"  At  least  I  must  know  for  myself;  I  came  East  only  to 
find  out  whom  she  could  care  for.  When  does  the  next 
train  start?  I  have  waited  so  long  to  speak  that  I  am  out 
of  all  patience  now;  excuse  me  if  I  am  rough." 

"Oh,  how  horribly  stupid  I  am  !  I  have  been  talking 
to  you  as  if  you  only  took  a  brotherly  interest;  just  stab- 
bing and  wounding  you  !  What  shall  I  do  ?  " 

"Tell  me  the  quickest  way  back  to  New  York.  It's 
no  fault  of  yours,  indeed." 

"You  must  drive  over  to  the  Junction."  He  had 
walked  up  from  the  station  near  by.  "I  can  find  you  a 
horse  and  man,  and  while  he's  harnessing  I'll  put  you 
up  something  to  eat  on  the  way."  B 

"Now  this  is  too  bad  !  "  she  said  to  herself,  while  she 
watched  Felix  out  of  sight.  "  I  feel  as  if  I  was  playing  a 
double  game.  Of  course  it's  better  that  a  man  should 
have  a  clear  record,  like  the  Doctor  or  my  husband;  still, 
I  do  believe  Harry  Sundon's  is  an  exceptional  case.  I  wish 
I  knew  what  she  would  think.  Why,"  fairly  gasping  for 
breath  as  recollections  of  talks  in  the  winter  came  crowd- 
ing on  her,  "  I  know  now  !  I  ought  to  have  given  a  hint, 


YESTERDAY.  243 

and  not  let  the  Doctor  go  off  without  a  hope;  he's  had 
such  a  hard  life,  poor  man,  that  he  sees  everything  black. 
And  as  for  Sundon  I  believe  it's  all  fancy." 

Yet  she  could  not  quite  convince  herself  nothing  was 
the  matter  there,  after  all. 

Felix  felt  very  glad  to  find  his  driver  more  silent  and  his 
horse  faster  than  the  country  average.  His  blood  was  up. 
The  thing  he  had  dimly  imagined  had  come  full  upon 
him,  and  for  the  time  he  could  see  no  other  matter.  He 
had  heard  occasional  rumors  in  all  these  years  that  Grace 
was  likely  to  be  engaged;  but  they  had  each  one  turned 
out  unfounded.  It  was  easy  to  understand  that  among  the 
officers  of  the  distant  garrison  more  than  one  might  be 
pleased  by  her,  possibly  enough  she  might  return  the  feel- 
ing of  some  lucky  fellow;  still  Felix  would  not  be  daunted, 
would  not  give  her  up  till  he  should  absolutely  receive  her 
wedding-cards.  He  had  waited  and  worked  so  many  years 
for  success,  still  modest,  but  at  last  enough  in  his  eyes  to 
warrant  his  coming  forward,  that  he  could  not  easily  bear 
a  check.  The  Waveneys  had  said  Grace  was  more  charm- 
ing than  ever;  he  could  imagine  it;  she  had  never  been 
crude,  but  she  had  still  ripened  slowly;  at  thirty  some 
women  begin  to  fade,  but  she  would  be  perfect.  And 
now  there  must  confront  him  the  prospect,  the  risk,  the 
danger,  of  Sundon  making  her  his  prize, — Sundon,  who 
had  had  everything  he  desired,  enough  to  have  wearied  of 


244  YESTERDAY. 

half  of  it;  yes,  and  much  that  a  man  is  the  worse  for  ex- 
periencing— much  that  must  have  'unfitted  him  for  Grace's 
companionship.  Would  Grace  understand  that?  Would 
she  shrink  from  Sundon,  divining  what  he  was,  or  would 
the  realization  of  that  be  so  beyond  her  that  it  were  not 
possible  to  undeceive  her?  Again,  perhaps  Ina's  kindly 
judgment  might  be  just,  and  Sundon's  nature  might  be 
purified  through  his  care  for  Thyra  and  his  affection  for 
Grace — if,  coming  so  close  together,  one  of  the  two  things 
did  not  inevitably  make  a  wrong  of  the  other.  Still  Felix 
must  go  on  and  hear  what  Grace  had  to  say,  though  it 
were  the  death-sentence  of  his  future;  must  tell  her  what 
he  believed  Sundon  to  be,  though  it  were  treachery  to  a 
man  whose  confidence. he  had  unwillingly  surprised  in  an 
unguarded  hour. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

HARRY  had  decided  to  reach  his  goal  on  Long  Island 
by  the  morning  boat  rather  than  by  the  train;  in 
the  forenoon  the  first  was  never  crowded,  and  he  should  be 
more  likely  to  avoid  meeting  acquaintances.  He  wanted 
to  be  as  nearly  alone  on  this  expedition  as  he  could. 

It  was  very  disturbing  that  he  must  seek  Grace  in  that 
haunted  neighborhood,  which  of  itself  was  likely  to  recall 
to  her  the  memories  that  he  wanted  to  blot  out  At  least 
he  should  not  find  her  in  the  little  house;  it  had  long 
since  been  given  back  to  the  gardeners  occupation.  But 
the  season  was  the  same,  the  region  round  unaltered; 
would  those  influences  not  make  her  unbelieving  as  to 
changes  in  other  things? 

He  went  out  on  the  upper  forward  deck  to  smoke; 
but  his  cigar  was  hardly  lit  before  he  took  it  from  his 
mouth  to  greet  an  approaching  fellow-passenger. 

' '  Why,  Doctor  Belden  !  When  did  you  come  on  ? 
Glad  to  see  you."  He  had  forgotten  that  he  should 
think  Felix's  next  appearance  ill-omened.  But  Felix 
could  not  let  the  associations  of  their  last  meeting  pass. 


246  YESTERDAY. 

"You  have  not  been  so  fortunate  lately,"  he  said. 
"I  was  sorry  to  hear  of  your  wife's  death." 

"Yes,"  Harry  answered,  deceived  by  the  sympathetic 
tone,  and  feeling  as  if  he  were  deceiving.  "It's  not 
an  old  story  yet  Poor  Thyra !  Still — " 

He  broke  off;  for  once  in  his  life  he  did  not  know 
what  to  say;  he  wanted  to  tell  Felix  nothing,  and  at 
the  same  time  felt  as  if  he  ought  to  make  no  pretenses 
with  him. 

"Are  you  going  to  Coney  Island  ?  "  Felix  asked.  The 
boat,  after  touching  once  or  twice  along  shore,  finished 
its  voyage  at  that  point 

"No;  I  have  business  in  what  Waveney  tells  me  is 
your  old  neighborhood." 

Felix  questioned  no  further  for  the  time;  they  both 
sat  silent,  while  the  little  steamboat  paddled  out  into 
the  Bay,  and  then  as  if  shy  of  meeting  the  larger  and 
showier  boats  that  crossed  the  open  water  to  and  fro, 
kept  close  to  the  Long  Island  shore,  following  the  green, 
tree-crowned  bank  (now  rough  with  brushwood  and  care- 
less roadside  grass,  now  smoothly  terraced  and  leading 
up  to  large  well-ordered  country-houses),  that  runs  from 
Greenwood  to  Fort  Hamilton.  Just  as  a  traveler  begins 
to  find  this  shore  monotonous,  it  turns  suddenly,  making 
the  eastern  wall  of  the  Narrows  by  a  little  clean-cut 
bluff,  faced  citywards  with  a  hanging  grove  of  wild  trees 


YESTERDAY.  247 

whose  lighter  green  is  brocaded  with  tops  and  boughs 
of  dark  cedars,  while  under  the  front  towards  the  Lower 
Bay  a  handful  of  fishermen's  shanties  nestle,  fringing  them- 
selves with  tumble-down  scraps  of  docks.  Here  Fort  La- 
fayette stood  ruined  in  the  channel,  and  garrisoned  by  a 
fog-bell;  looking  back  as  the  boat  passed,  the  brick  walls 
and  doorways  cased  with  stone,  the  large-leaved  spreading 
seedling  ailanthuses  (warm-weather  trees  which  are  so  out 
of  fashion  now  as  to  suggest  neglect)  springing  up  against 
them,  and  in  front  a  huddle  of  queer  little  sheds  and  big 
old  boilers  on  the  small  wooden  pier  of  the  islet,  all 
joined  to  make  a  picturesque  sketchy  effect;  with  a  cer- 
tain West  Indian  suggestion,  echoed,  when  you  turned 
your  head,  by  Coney  Island's  distant  shining  sands. 
Across  the  Narrows,  the  fine  hill  of  Staten  Island  rose 
from  village  on  the  wharf  to  villa  on  the  edge  of  the 
high-set  woods;  its  sharp  southward  corner  made  sharper 
by  the  grassy  steep  between  the  forts. 

"That's  a  bad  piece  of  work  for  its  purpose,"  said 
Harry,  pointing  to  the  lower  fort;  "a  few  foreign  shells 
would  bring  it  all  down  on  the  heads  of  the  garrison, 
and  kill  them  with  their  own  casemates." 

"To  be  sure,"  Felix  rejoined.  "For  all  that,  in 
these  times  of  peace,  it  is  the  best  thing  in  the  Bay 
architecturally;  a  real  rock  could  not  finish  the  picture 
better  than  the  simple  lines  of  those  great  gray  walls. 


248  YESTERDAY. 

You  and  I  though  have  more  to  do  with  the  other 
shore  now,  I  think." 

"It's  flat  enough  over  there  beyond  Fort  Hamilton/' 
Harry  answered,  with  seeming  carelessness,  but  begin- 
ning to  wonder  what  the  Doctor  meant 

"All  the  same  you  cannot  expect  to  have  a  dull 
errand  of  it,  if  you  are  going  to  see  Grace  Delahay," 
Felix  said. 

"  How  came  you  to  know  Miss  Delahay  well  enough  to 
call  her  Grace  ? "  asked  Harry. 

' '  We  were  children  together,  and  friends  once,  and 
are  so  still,  I  dare  say;  but  I  have  not  seen  her  for 
nearly  nine  years." 

"You  are  bound  there  this  morning  too?" 

"Yes,  I  am." 

There  were  no  other  passengers  on  the  forward  deck, 
and  few  on  the  boat  at  all;  but  the  conversation  was 
dropping  into  low  and  excited  tones. 

"Just  tell  me,"  said  Harry,  thinking  it  best  to  risk 
something,  "have  people  been  putting  her  name  and 
mine  together  already  ?  " 

"No,  indeed.  But  I  have  a  way, — a  foolish  one,  I 
imagine, — of  taking  things  for  granted  on  my  own 
ideas. " 

"Well — I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  as  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned you  are  right  I  mean  I'm  neither  so  conceited 


YESTERDAY.  249 

nor  so  down-hearted  as  to  be  sure  what  she  thinks  of  me; 
but  I  must  hear  it  to-day  from  herself." 

"I  wonder  if  she  understands  you  well  enough  to 
know  what  she  ought  to  think  of  you." 

"Were  you  going  down  to  enlighten  her?  I  don't 
want  to  snub  you;  you  deserve  no  such  treatment;  but  I 
must  tell  you  it's  quite  unnecessary;  she  knows  me  al- 
ready better  than  you  do." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"You  don't  dare  to  doubt  her,  do  you?" 

"No!  but  I  doubt  you." 

"Well,  since  you  have  heard  half,  you  may  as  well 
have  the  whole.  You  came  to  understand  me  by  an 
accident;  so  did  she.  Only  her  occasion  was  more  se- 
rious, if  possible;  just  before  matters  came  to  a  climax 
between  Thyra  Lang,  as  she  then  was,  and  myself. 
There  was  still  time  to  turn  back,  and  Grace  tried  to 
turn  me;  in  fact  I  promised  to  let  Thyra  alone,  and  I 
began  to;  but  another  chance  meeting,  and  I  broke  my 
word.  Grace  thought  at  first  the  whole  thing  was  a  de- 
ception and  a  trick  on  my  part;  but  I  don't  believe  she 
does  so  now." 

"If  she  was  willing  to  renew  the  acquaintance  last 
winter,  I  suppose  not" 

"That  was  an  accident,  too.  She  evidently  didn't  want 
to  make  trouble  between  the  Waveneys  and  myself." 


250  YESTERDAY. 

"I  must  own  I  think  you  have  behaved  well  to  the 
Waveneys. " 

"I  owed  it  to  them  to  let  them  think  better  of  me 
than  I  deserve." 

"But  now  have  I  any  business  with  Grace  in  this 
affair?" 

"That  you  can  tell  best  for  yourself;  I  mean  to  see 
her  to-day;  but  I  haven't  the  right  to  stop  you." 

"Then  the  whole  matter  rests  with  her.  I  shall  go 
on  shore  and  look  at  the  old  places;  but  I  don't  interrupt 
you,  since  you  are  not  the  man  I  remember  you." 

"I  hope  this  isn't  too  serious  to  him,"  thought  Harry; 
and  aloud,  "I  thank  you  for  that." 

They  parted  at  the  boat-landing;  Felix  strayed  off  to 
the  beach,  Harry  took  the  way  to  Mrs.  Bishop's.  "Mrs. 
Bishop  wasn't  well,  saw  no  one;  but  Miss  Delahay  would 
be  down  in  a  minute,"  the  servant  said. 

The  large  bare  old  rooms  with  their  faded  carpets,  their 
quaint  engravings  in  black  frames,  their  scanty  furnishing 
and  scattered  scraps  of  antiquated  bric-a-brac,  looked 
the  same  as  the  first  time  he  had  seen  them.  Nothing 
was  changed  but  himself.  He  could  not  go  back  and 
be  the  man  of  that  spring  day,  younger,  freer,  unbur- 
dened with  those  recollections  that  he  feared  would  make 
an  impassable  barrier  between  him  and  Grace.  If  he 
had  only  known — -  Well!  who  dares  to  break  a  law 


YESTERDAY.  251 

should  have  courage  enough  to  bear  the  law-breaker's 
punishment;  and  perhaps — •  "Here  she  comes;  does 
she  look  unwilling  to  listen  to  me?" 

She  came,  with  her  heart  full  of  another  image.  She 
had  no  idea  Felix  had  crossed  the  mountains;  Florence's 
letter  had  miscarried  this  time,  not  reaching  Long  Island 
till  that  evening,  after  all  was  settled;  but  since  their  part- 
ing, there  had  never  been  a  day  that  Grace  did  not  think  of 
her  love.  In  her  separation  from  her  old  friends,  she  had 
seen  no  reason  to  crush  the  seemingly  hopeless  longing 
with  which  she  also  must  destroy  too  much  of  her  inner 
life.  "When  he  marries  it  will  be  time,"  she  had  told 
herself,  even  as  he  himself;  and  the  occasion  did  not 
come.  While  she  was  in  Texas,  in  new  circumstances 
and  busy  with  Helen's  education,  her  love  had  retreated 
for  enough  into  the  background  of  her  life  to  be  a  mel- 
ancholy pleasure.  But  the  first  approach  to  her  old  sur- 
roundings had  brought  it  forward,  and  Harry's  attentions 
gave  it  a  new  and  poignant  phase.  Other  men  had  been 
interested  in  her,  but  none  affected  her  so  strangely  or 
strongly.  Escape  him  she  knew  she  should  in  the  end; 
yet  she  feared  the  meantime. 

She  met  him  with  a  troubled  face;  still  he  thought  he 
had  never  seen  her  so  lovely.  For  her  part,  she  had 
expected  to  find  him  overbearing,  and  instead  it  was  in  a 
gentle  manner,  recalling  Tyne  to  her  mind,  that  he  said, 


252  YESTERDAY. 

"You  see  I  could  not  take  your  letter  for  an  answer." 

"I  wish  you  had.  I  do  not  know  what  more  to 
say." 

"But  I  know;  I  who  had  to  follow  you." 

"What  shall  I  do?" 

"Love  me!     Since  I  cannot  turn,  Grace,  turn  to  me." 

"I  have  no  more  choice  than  you.  I  cannot  love 
you.  I  do  not" 

"And  yet  you  say  you  have  forgiven  me." 

"Yes;  I  mean  to  do  you  justice;  but  love  is  a  step  be- 
yond, and  I  cannot  go  so  far.  I  pity  you  and  am  angry 
with  myself,  that  you  have  set  your  heart  on  me;  but  what 
you  ask  is  not  in  me  to  render." 

"Grace,  give  me  time;  let  me  try  to  win  you;  a  month, 
a  year,  ten,  twenty,  if  you  must;  only  don't  send  me 
away  altogether." 

"  It  is  useless;  the  longer  you  wait  the  less  it  will  help; 
you  will  only  wear  out  yourself  and  me;  once  for  all,  I 
cannot  love  you." 

She  spoke  very  gently  and  sadly.  But  for  all  that  he 
lost  control  of  himself. 

"The  devil !  here  I  have  had  my  own  way  all  my  life, 
and  now  when  I  must  succeed,  when  I  don't  care  to  live 
another  day  without  success,  I  fail !  You  cruel,  cold  wo- 
man, I  hope  the  same  may  come  to  you  that  you  give  to 
me." 


YESTERDAY.  253 

"A  lover's  blessing,  indeed!"  said  Grace,  her  eyes 
flashing. 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment.  "No;  I  take  it  back;  I 
must  wish  you  well,  no  matter  what  you  do  to  me." 

"It's  no  use,"  she  said  at  last,  after  a  long  pause,  a 
heavy  silence  to  them  both;  "I  am  as  wretched  for  an- 
other as  you  can  be  for  me.  Why  should  we  torment 
each  other  then  ?  " 

' '  Forgive  me  !  I  should  have  guessed  that. " 

' '  I  took  pains  you  should  not,  you  of  all  people.  I 
think  now  that  distinction  was  unfair." 

"Trust  me  then.  You  give  me  no  hope;  have  you 
none  for  yourself? " 

"None."  She  really  believed  it;  it  was  so  long  since 
she  had  seen  Felix. 

"  Impossible  !  You  might  draw  any  man  to  you  you 
chose;  but  if  you  think  he  will  not  come,  I  am  here. " 

"I  cannot  forget  him;  I  do  not  know  how." 

"It's  all  my  fault;  if  I  had  not  lost  my  head,  and 
thrown  myself  away  on  a  woman  not  to  be  named  in  the 
same  year  with  you,  I  might  win  you  yet;  always  so  ! " 

"You  must  not  make  yourself  miserable  with  that;  be- 
fore you  ever  saw  me,  I  loved  him." 

' '  I  might  have  made  you  forget  him,  though,  if  I  had 
not  been  such  a  fool." 

' '  Never !  "  thought   Grace,    but  would  not   speak   it. 


254  YESTERDAY.  ' 

Still  her  silence  was  not  an  assenting  one,  and  Harry 
could  not  but  understand  it  On  thft  desperate  moment 
followed  an  impulse  that  was  given  no  time  to  grow  cool. 

"Too  late  and  too  soon;  that  is  the  history  of  my  life, 
it  seems,"  he  went  on.  "But  if  I  can  do  anything,  it 
shall  not  be  of  yours.  I  see  it  all  now;  I  know  the  man, 
and  he  loves  you ;  why,  he  all  but  told  me  so  not  an  hour 
past  It's  Felix  Belden. " 

She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"Yes.  It's  the  only  thing  I  am  sure  of  in  this  world, 
what  you  and  he  care  for  each  other.  He  has  come  on 
from  California,  and  for  you." 

She  looked  up.      ' '  Where  is  he  ? " 

"  Down  on  the  beach.  I'll  bring  him  up.  He  ought 
to  have  been  here,  not  I;  but  I  told  him  what  I  was  about, 
and  that  sent  him  off.  You'll  hate  me  again  for  that,  and 
indeed  you  may.  It  seems  I  never  can  treat  you  fairly. 
To  be  sure,  he's  not  to  be  bluffed  off  by  a  mere  guess, 
like  the  idiots  in  the  novels;  he  would  come  to-morrow 
to  see  for  himself  what  you  decided,  anyhow;  but  you 
shan't  have  to  wait,  if  I'm  an  honest  man." 

"And  just  when  no  one  could  blame  you  for  standing 
aside,  you  turn  and  help  me  !  I  have  misjudged  you 
cruelly;  and  now  you  prove  a  friend,  such  a  friend — " 

"Grace,  did  not  I  tell  you  I  loved  you?  and  I  mean 
it  This  is  the  only  chance  I  ever  shall  have  to  show 


YF.STRKDAY.  255 

you  it;  the  only  thing — and  a  poor  trifle  enough — I  may 
ever  be  able  to  do  for  you;  and  I  should  be  a  precious 
scoundrel  if  I  did  less.  Say  no  more;  in  two  minutes 
you  shall  hear  him." 

He  was  gone.  Grace  sank  into  a  chair,  one  hand  at 
her  throat,  one  on  her  breast;  she  was  choking  with  the 
flood  of  emotions  that  had  coma  upon  her. 

Harry  found  Felix  just  leaving  the  shore  to  take  the 
cross-road  towards  the  village  (in  doing  which,  by  the  way, 
one  avoided  passing  Mrs.  Bishop's  house).  He  was  walk- 
ing slowly  along  with  his  head  bent,  and  noticed  nothing 
till  Harry  had  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm,  saying,  "Come 
quick;  it's  you  that  are  wanted." 

' '  What's  happened  ?  " 

"What  I  ought  to  have  known  would.  I'm  noth- 
ing there.  It's  your  place,  it  always  has  been;  never  any 
one's  but  yours.  Whenever  you  and  I  come  across 
each  other  you  always  have  the  best  of  it,  and  now 
you've  fairly  beaten  me  off  the  field.  Your  journey 
from  the  West  was  no  fool's  errand." 

' '  What  do  you  mean  ?     How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"Easy  enough.  She  would  have  nothing  to  say  to 
me.  At  that  I  acted  like  a  brute,  as  I  generally  do 
just  when  I  shouldn't;  lost  my  temper,  told  her  I 
wished  she  might  be  as  wretched  as  I, — and  she  owned 
I  had  my  wish.  Of  course  I  had  to  guess  your  name; 


256  YESTERDAY. 

but  she  couldn't  keep  it  from  me,  though  she  couldn't 
speak  it  herself.  Now  do  you  see?  Come  along;  I 
said  I  would  bring  you." 

"And  you  can  do  this  for  me — for  us — now?  How 
shall  I  thank  you  ?  I  feel  as  if  I  were  wronging  you. 
I  couldn't  have  expected  so  much  of  any  man." 

' '  Good  Lord,  what  do  you  think  of  people  ?  What 
else  can  I  do  ?  A  regular  scamp  I  should  be  if  I  tried 
to  keep  you  apart  now,  when  a  word  was  all  that  it 
needed  to  bring  you  together.  I  give  up  nothing,  for 
I  have  nothing  to  give  up;  everything  is  yours  and  hers, 
and  I  will  cheat  no  man  out  of  his  own.  I  can't  help 
thinking  you  to  blame  though  for  letting  her  live  on  this 
way,  eating  her  own  heart  all  these  years;  she  thought 
you  didn't  love  her,  and  she  hardly  believes  it  now,  poor 
thing;  you  will  have  to  do  a  great  deal  to  make  it  up 
to  her." 

"It  seemed  more  honorable  to  leave  her  free  than 
to  hamper  her  with  a  long  engagement." 

"Do  you  know  her  no  better  than  to  suppose  an 
engagement  to  a  man  she  loved  would  have  been  a 
burden  ?  She  is  the  woman  to  think  half  a  loaf  better 
than  no  bread,  and  I  only  wonder  she  hasn't  starved 
outright. " 

"My  sister  told  me  as, much,  but  I  was  not  ready  to 
believe  her." 


YESTERDAY.  257 

"You're  an  obstinate  fellow;    don't  be  so  to  Grace 
But  here  I  stand  taking  you  to  task,   and  am  just  as 
bad   myself,    for  keeping  her  waiting   for   you.     Come  ! 
There's  no  more  to  say  except  to  her." 

Grace  thought  herself  quite  calm  when  the  first  shock 
had  passed;  to  such  temperaments  as  hers,  joy  is  soothing. 
But  the  sound  of  the  two  men's  footsteps  at  the  door  made 
her  tremble  all  over;  she  could  but  just  rise  to  meet  them 
as  they  entered. 

"You  see  I  can  keep  my  word,"  Harry  said. 

"  Don't — I  do  believe  you — "  She  put  out  her  hand, 
thinking  she  should  fall. 

"Grace!"  Felix  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  her 
head  dropped  on  his  shoulder  a  moment;  the  next  she 
lifted  it,  and  turned,  with  her  eyes  swimming  in  tears: 

"Oh,   Mr.  Sundon,  if  we  could — if  we  could — " 

"Never  mind  me.  Think  of  yourselves  now.  I've 
just  time  to  catch  the  next  train;  good-bye  !  " 

With  that  he  ran  out  of  the  house. 

"If  it  could  have  been  any  other  way!"  said  Felix. 
' '  What  must  you  think  of  me,  my  darling,  neglecting 
you  so  when  he  was  so  kind  ?  I  wonder  you  have  not 
chosen  him." 

"I  could  not  There  has  never  been  any  one  but 
you  for  me.  But  is  it  true  we  are  together  now?  I 
have  dreamed  we  might  not  always  be  parted,  that 


258  YESTERDAY. 

there  might  come  a  time  when  you  would  love  me 
and  I  would  own  I  loved  you;  and  now  it  seems  I 
must  still  be  dreaming." 

"You  shall  know  you  are  awake;  I  shall  spend  the 
rest  of  my  life  in  proving  it  to  you,  my  love,  my  darling  ! 
This^  shall  be  real,  whatever  else  is  shadow;  this  shall  be 
present,  whatever  else  is  past" 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

HARRY  had  to  run  for  the  train,  and  just  caught  it; 
when  he  had  cooled  down  from  that  exercise  he 
took  out  of  his  pocket  a  couple  of  business  letters,  and 
read  them  over  and  over,  trying  to  fill  his  mind  entirely 
with  professional  matters.  "There's  life  enough  in  those 
things,"  he  told  himself,  "for  a  man  of  my  age."  But 
this  last  was  not  a  pleasant  reflection.  He  had  no  con- 
sciousness of  failing  powers,  or  sensitiveness  dulled  to  im- 
pressions of  any  sort;  must  he  feel  already  that  in  one 
direction  his  hold  on  life  had  slackened  ? 

Grace  and  Felix  chose  an  early  day  for  their  wedding, 
that  they  might  cross  the  mountains  before  the  winter 
blockaded  their  road.  Ina  and  Tony  were  there;  but 
Harry  was  off  on  a  starring  trip,  and  did  not  return  to 
New  York  till  "the  Beldens"  were  gone.  For  months 
he  heard  nothing  of  them;  the  Waveneys  abstained  from 
mentioning  them. 

At  length  one  day  he  asked  Ina,  "How  does  Mrs. 
Belden  get  on  in  her  new  home  ? " 


260  YESTERDAY. 

"She  is  very  well  and  happy  she  tells  me." 

"Does  she  write  to  you?" 

"Often.     She  is  a  capital  correspondent." 

"You  must  let  me  know  when  you  have  any  news  of — 
of  them.  Of  course  it  will  be  good;  the  Doctor  is  bound 
to  make  her  happy,  and  I  am  sure  he  will." 

After  that  Ina  always  reported  to  Harry  what  she  heard 
from  California;  a  story  of  steady  success  and  content. 
He  received  it  with  quiet  interest;  only  once,  when  she 
had  the  birth  of  Grace's  first  child  to  announce,  he  seemed 
disturbed.  Still,  as  time  went  on,  Ina  believed  him  rec- 
onciled to  the  state  of  affairs. 

She  was  mistaken.  Do  what  he  might,  Harry  could 
not  absorb  himself  in  the  present  so  far  as  to  have  no  rec- 
ollections. Still  reminded  every  day  of  what  he  had  been 
forced  to  leave  behind  him  as  suddenly  as  a  traveler  in 
the  tropics,  separated  from  the  village  of  the  plain,  where 
he  tarried  an  hour  ago,  by  an  earthquake-chasm  opening 
between  him  and  its  distant  smiling  houses  whither  he 
had  planned  to  return;  finding  all  things  as  it  were 
conspire  against  him  to  awake  associations,  a  hidden 
fire  lurked  under  his  outward  quiet.  At  first  he  had 
been  hardly  conscious  of  it  himself,  under  the  dulling 
influence  of  the  great  blow  he  had  received.  But  when 
the  effort  to  substitute  his  other  interests  for  the  feeling 
which  so  quickly  and  so  thoroughly  had  become  his  real 


YESTERDAY.  261 

life  did  not  succeed  in  making  him  forget  Grace,  his  love 
for  her  revived.  He  reproached  himself  for  this  treachery 
in  thought  to  her  and  Felix;  but  his  emotion  held  him 
like  a  mania.  He  gradually  excused  himself  for  it;  what 
wrong  could  there  be  in  a  mere  sentiment  ?  It  was  only  a 
charm  against  meaner  loves,  a  last  relic  of  enthusiasm  to 
keep  him  from  growing  old  too  fast.  So  he  was  not 
shocked  when  by  degrees  a  fixed  idea  shaped  itself: 
"While  Belden  lives,  nothing;  but  if  he  should  die?  I 
shall  never  try  to  murder  him,  that  would  lose  me  her  for 
ever;  but  if  he  should  die,  she  might  come  to  me  at  last. " 
This  ghost  of  a  future  became  his  constant  companion;  he 
had  not  the  strength  to  kill  it,  only  to  keep  it  just  where 
it  was  in  its  growth — no  more,  no  less,  and  only  known 
to  himself. 

Things  might  have  gone  worse  if  he  had  had  no 
outlet  for  his  emotions.  But  he  could  express  himself 
very  fully  in  his  acting,  yet  be  shielded  by  the  fictitious 
situations  from  having  the  world  understand  what  he 
really  meant  The  danger  was  that  having  not  enough 
to  interest  him  outside  of  it, — for  his  relations  with  the 
Waveneys  and  other  friends,  pleasant  as  they  were,  yet 
left  many  blanks  unfilled, — he  would  wear  himself  out 
before  his  time;  for  he  worked  hard  and  constantly. 
He  foresaw  this;  but  so  faintly,  that  it  did  not  influence 
him;  his  calling  was  too  dear  to  him  to  be  slighted  for 


262  YESTERDA  Y. 

the  sake  of  an  unpleasant  possibility  which  he  did  not 
at  all  realize. 

Years  passed;  his  professional  success  continued,  and 
his  heart-secret  was  still  his  own.  The  last  no  one  had 
ever  suspected  less,  though  it  had  never  weighed  on  him 
more,  than  one  winter  Sunday  evening,  when  Ina's  news 
was  that  Grace  had  been  seriously  ill,  and  was  hardly  out 
of  danger  at  the  time  of  the  letter,  which  was  written  by 
Florence,  always  an  inmate  of  her  brother's  house. 

Harry  sat  with  the  Waveneys  for  some  time,  talking 
of  indifferent  things  and  thinking  of  Grace;  at  last  he 
went  to  his  own  quarters.  He  and  his  friends  still  lived 
in  the  same  apartments  they  had  in  Thyra's  time.  Since 
her  death,  Harry  had  made  no  attempt  at  housekeeping; 
he  hired  a  woman  to  come  in  and  do  the  housework 
while  he  was  out,  and  took  his  meals  at  a  restaurant  when 
the  Waveneys  did  not  insist  on  his  making  one  at  their 
table.  He  was  quite  alone  when  he  shut  his  door. 
Then  was  the  time  for  the  crowded  distinct  past  and 
the  vague  future  to  come  upon  him  and  master  him. 
The  rooms  were  full  of  suggestions  of  Thyra;  he  had 
changed  nothing  since  her  day,  nor  had  he  ever  been 
willing  to  leave  the  place.  He  knew  people  praised 
what  they  thought  meant  devotion  to  her  memory;  he 
chafed  at  this  deception,  but  how  could  he  explain  ? 
It  seemed  worse  to  him  now  than  ever,  overcome  as 


YESTERDAY.  263 

he  was  with  anxiety  for  Grace.  In  all  his  fancyings 
he  had  never  thought  of  her  death;  and  no  wonder, 
with  his  temperament  "I  have  no  imagination  for  the 
supernatural,"  he  had  once  said;  and  to  his  mind,  Grace 
in  her  grave  would  have  seemed  a  thousand  times  more 
lost  to  him  than  Grace,  living,  and  Felix  Belden's  wife. 
So  the  night  was  made  dreary,  and  the  days  which  fol- 
lowed were  little  better,  till  Ina  gave  him  a  more  fav- 
orable report.  Still  he  was  not  free  from  his  new  care 
till  spring-time  began. 

Meanwhile  he  had  been  acting  in  a  play  which  owed 
its  great  success  principally  to  him.  True,  the  company 
was  a  strong  one,  and  the  other  parts  worth  representing 
and  well  sustained;  but  Harry's  was  the  sympathetic  charac- 
ter of  the  piece.  He  played  the  man  who,  having  known 
from  folly  rather  than  perversity  what  vice  was  in  his 
younger  days,  applied  his  experience,  with  wit  and  keen 
courage,  to  the  successful  circumventing  of  the  really  vi- 
cious individuals  bent  on  making  a  prey  of  the  impru- 
dent and  unwary  people  who  filled  out  the  list  on  the 
programme.  The  personage  is  not  new,  to  be  sure; 
but  the  ingenuity  of  the  playwright  had  given  him 
some  freshness,  and  Harry's  representation  made  him 
appear  absolutely  original.  His  final  fate,  Harry  de- 
clared was  "more  romantic  than  natural";  after  having 
worked  disinterestedly  for  his  friends,  he  was  unexpect- 


264  YESTERDA  Y. 

edly  rewarded  by  the  unhoped-for  though  much-desired 
love  of  the  charming  ingenue,  for  whom  more  than  one 
other  had  sighed  in  vain.  The  critics  however  approved 
of  this  close,  saying  that  "otherwise  the  play  would  have 
been  a  mere  brilliant  problem  in  moral  arithmetic." 

"Or  a  tragedy,"  Harry  added  confidentially  to  the 
Waveneys. 

"You  are  thinking  of  my  uncle  Mont,"  said  Tony. 

Ina  did  not  mention  what  came  into  her  own  head. 

Certain  it  is  that  those  who  still  remembered  "the 
gentleman  in  spite  of  himself"  declared  they  could  al- 
most believe  they  were  meeting  him  again  in  some  friend's 
parlor,  Harry  recalled  him  so  vividly,  notwithstanding 
the  difference  of  looks.  Other  theater-goers  of  a  sen- 
sitive kind  objected,  "That  sort  of  imitation  is  too  much 
like  caricature  for  .a  thorough  artist;  we  don't  see  it." 
The  first  speakers  returned,  "Why,  such  perfectly  natural 
playing  makes  us  feel  half  the  time  as  if  we  were  eaves- 
dropping and  ought  to  go  away  if  our  curiosity  would 
let  us,"  at  which  the  second  scolded,  "  How  can  you  ac- 
cuse Sundon  of  such  vulgar  clap-trap  realism  as  that  im- 
plies?" Yet  though  they  quarreled  as  to  the  grounds 
of  their  admiration,  both  parties  were  agreed  in  feeling 
and  proclaiming  it  heartily. 

This  part  interested  Harry  so  much  that  he  spared 
himself  no  pains  to  make  it  his  best.  After  a  time,  how- 


YESTERDAY.  265 

ever,  he  felt  it  to  be  a  greater  effort  to  play  than  usual; 
though  the  public  did  not  suspect  this.  For  several 
nights  the  sensation  went  on  increasing;  till  one  evening, 
after  the  plav  w  is  over,  and  he  and  Waveney  were  walk- 
ing home  in  tne  April  moonlight,  he  said,  "Give  me 
your  arm,  Tony;  I  haven't  been  drinking,  I  swear,  but  I 
can't  walk  straight,  for  my  head  swims,  and  I  can't  see. 
I  wonder  what  this  means." 

"  You've  got  tired  for  once,"  said  Waveney.  "  Hadn't 
we  better  have  a  hack?" 

"It's  not  worth  while,  such  a  little  way.  I'm  over 
it  now." 

The  next  morning,  notwithstanding,  he  did  not  come 
to  breakfast  with  the  Waveneys,  as  he  had  promised. 
Waveney  went  to  see  if  anything  was  the  matter,  and 
found  him  still  in  bed. 

"It's  no  use,  Tony,"  he  said.  "You  mustn't  expect 
me.  When  I  try  to  get  up,  I  can't  stand,  and  my  head 
aches  as  if  it  would  split  I  must  lie  by  for  a  day,  if 
you  can  get  Benson  to  let  me  off." 

"I'll  make  him,  somehow;  and  I'll  tell  Dr.  Barbette 
to  look  in." 

"You  might  as  well.  I  dare  say  it's  nothing  much, 
but  the  sooner  it's  stopped  the  better." 

"You  ought  to  have  something  to  eat,  to  begin  with; 
I'll  see  you  do." 


266  YESTERDA  Y. 

"  Don't  bother  yourself  about  that;  I  don't  want  it,  I 
couldn't  touch  it." 

"Oh,  wait  till  you  have  it." 

Waveney's  family  took  his  report  as  very  bad  news. 
The  eldest  little  girl,  Toinette,  began  to  cry;  then  she 
jumped  up  and  ran  out.  Her  father  had  hardly  time 
to  get  back  to  his  friend,  before  there  was  a  knock  at 
Harry's  door  which  announced  the  doctor. 

"Your  little  girl,"  said  Barbette  to  Waveney,  "caught 
me  on  my  steps,  and  would  not  let  me  go  till  she  left 
me  here." 

"I  declare,  Tony,  I  envy  you  that  little  puss  more 
than  ever,"  said  Harry. 

Barbette  looked  grave  at  his  patient's  account  of 
himself. 

"No,  Mr.  Sundon,  this  isn't  a  trifle.  You  have  come 
to  a  stopping-place  for  the  present;  you  must  rest,  wheth- 
er you  like  it  or  not.  Overwork,  that's  the  trouble." 

"That  all?" 

"Yes;  but  isn't  that  plenty?  You  keep  up  a  pretty 
steady  strain  on  body  and  mind  in  the  regular  season, 
turning  night  into  day  every  evening,  and  day  into  gas- 
light of  Saturdays  besides;  you've  had  a  succession  of 
exciting  new  parts  year  after  year;  you've  starred  up 
and  down  the  country,  with  all  the  chances  of  bad 
weather,  bad  food,  and  the  professional  worries  and 


YESTERDAY.  267 

annoyances  that  unaccustomed  places  and  people  might 
bring  on  you;  you've  never  spared  yourself  in  the  way  of 
business,  and  when  you  were  younger  you — well,  you 
burnt  your  candle  at  both  ends  then,  I  believe.  I  as- 
sure you,  there's  nothing  the  matter  that  rest  won't. cure; 
but  you  must  take  it,  and  a  long  one  too.  You've  a 
good  constitution,  still  you're  not  made  of  iron;  in  some 
points  you're  not  as  tough  as  the  rest  of  us;  if  you  were, 
you  mightn't  have  made  the  first-class  mark  in  your 
particular  line  that  you  have;  so  much  the  better  for 
you  professionally  and  for  us  that  go  to  hear  you;  but 
all  the  more  reason  for  not  working  too  hard." 

"Well,  what  ought  I  to  do?  Lay  up  for  a  fortnight, 
or  a  month  ?  " 

"Six  months  at  least;  after  that  we'll  see." 

"Why,  doctor,  I  shall  be  bored  to  death." 

"Come  now,  you  can't  make  me  believe  that  you're 
such  an  empty-headed  idiot  as  all  that" 

"And  if  I  don't?" 

"You'll  take  your  chance  of  paralysis,  or  softening 
of  the  brain,  or  anything  else  which  disables  and  dulls, 
but,  with  a  constitution  like  yours,  doesn't  kill  at 
once. " 

"Then  I  should  be  a  burden  on  friends,  where  I 
have  no  claim  but  their  kindness.  In  that  case  you'd 
better  poison  me,  quick  and  quiet." 


268  YESTERDAY. 

"Instead  of  giving  you  a  new  lease  of  life,  after  a 
little  time  of  lying  fallow?" 

"Do  you  think  you  can?" 

"With  your  co-operation." 

"Oh,  then  you  may  as  well  have  it  I'm  not  tired 
of  the  boards  yet;  there  are  a  dozen  parts  I  should  like 
to  try  before  I  go  on  the  retired  list." 

Barbette  looked  in  again  later  in  the  day;  after  the 
second  visit  he  met  Benson  at  the  street-door  of  the 
house,  coming  to  inquire. 

"There  must  be  a  good  deal  up  if  Sundon's  sent  for 
you,"  said  the  manager,  "  he's  not  the  man  to  cry  over 
a  scratched  finger.  Poor  fellow  !  pity  he's  so  knocked 
up;  he  does  excite  himself  too  much,  don't  take  his 
parts  as  coolly  as  he  used  to.  I'll  put  on  another  play, 
and  I  suppose  a  few  quiet  nights'll  bring  him  round." 

"You  must  give  him  more  than  that,  if  you  don't 
want  to  break  him  down." 

"Not  for  the  world.  But  can't  you  patch  him  up, 
just  to  finish  the  season  ?  then  he'll  have  all  summer  to 
rest  It'll  be  devilish  inconvenient  just  now." 

' '  I  won't  answer  for  the  consequences  if  he  goes  on 
the  stage  again  under  a  year  from  to-day,  Mr.  Benson." 

"Why,  hang  it,  doctor,  what  am  I  to  do  without 
him  for  a  year,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  The  other  fel- 
lows are  well  enough,  but  he  can  do  all  they  can  and 


YESTERDA  Y.  269 

more.  I  can't  get  such  houses  with  nothing  but  farces. 
They  like  the  way  the  others  set  them  laughing  near  as 
well,  but  they  like  to  be  made  cry  only  the  way  he 
makes  them." 

"You  must  tide  over  it  somehow."  Barbette  thought 
Benson's  frankness  meant  a  harder  disposition  than  was 
after  all  the  fact  "Your  own  life  isn't  at  stake.  If 
you  worry  our  friend  to  work  too  soon, — there's  plenty 
of  hard  work  for  him  in  your  plays, — you'll  kill  him, 
let  me  tell  you."  Barbette's  face — he  was  a  little,  alert, 
dark  man,  with  eyes  as  keen  and  serviceable  as  fine  sur- 
gical instruments — showed  he  did  not  overstate. 

"Mercy  on  us,  doctor!  you  don't  think  I'd  play 
Harry  Sundon  any  bad  trick,  that's  always  done  the 
handsome  thing  by  me,  do  you?  I'll  go  right  up  and 
tell  him  he  may  take  his  own  time  to  get  well  in.  Go- 
ing to  send  him  abroad  ?  " 

"No;  the  trip  would  excite  him,  and  he  wants  quiet; 
besides,  he'd  better  be  under  my  eye  for  some  time 
now. " 

"If  there's  anything  he  ought  to  have,  let  me  know. 
But  who'll  take  care  of  him  ?  he's  all  alone. " 

1 '  Not  with  the  Waveneys  on  the  next  floor.  Trust 
them  to  look  after  him.  They  had  me  over  as  soon 
as  they  thought  he  could  want  me." 

1 '  Well,  I  may  see  him  ? " 


270  YESTERDAY. 

"Yes,  but  don't  stay  over  five  minutes  by  watch.  He 
isn't  fit  for  visits." 

"Unless  yours,   I'm  afraid." 

Benson  came  out  more  alarmed  than  he  went  in. 
"It's  like  the  world  coming  to  an  end,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, "when  Sundon's  not  able  to  hold  his  head  up." 

For  many  days  Harry  had  a  low  fever  and  did  not 
leave  his  bed;  even  after  that  was  over,  it  was  long 
before  he  could  get  out  of  the  house.  He  had  never 
been  ill  before  in  his  life,  and  these  hours  of  physical 
weakness  and  discomfort,  rarely  amounting  to  actual 
suffering,  but  keeping  him  unfit  for  action,  were  for- 
lorn enough.  By  degrees,  when  he  was  able  to  go 
into  the  Waveneys'  quarters,  and  sit  looking  out  of 
their  windows  or  watching  the  life  of  the  household, 
his  lot  seemed  more  tolerable.  But  it  was  so  absurd, 
to  take  care  of  himself,  or  be  taken  care  of,  as  he 
had  done  for  poor  Thyra  once  !  He  used  to  laugh  at 
it;  he  would  have  fretted,  but  for  the  prospect  of  re- 
turning the  sooner  to  his  profession  for  all  this  "non- 
sense." Little  Toinette  would  watch  over  him,  "to 
see  the  children  don't  come  and  tease  you,"  she  would 
say  with  an  air  borrowed  from  her  mother.  She  was 
not  as  pretty  as  Mary  and  the  new  baby-boy;  though 
she  had  Ina's  fine  eyes,  she  was  too  much  like  her 
father's  family  in  feature  for  real  beauty;  but  she  had 


YESTERDAY.  271 

always  been  Harry's  favorite,  since  the  day,  when  a  tiny 
thing  brought  into  a  room  full  of  strange  and  to  her 
alarming  people,  she  had  checked  her  coming  tears 
and  turned  to  him  for  refuge  with  a  smile. 

When  the  summer  began,  Barbette  sent  Harry  out  of 
town,  to  Atlantic  City.  The  salt  air  at  first  seemed  to  be 
the  right  prescription;  but  the  doctor,  who  came  down 
from  time  to  time  to  look  after  his  patient,  said  one 
day,  "You've  been  worrying  about  something  or 
other;  you  must  stop  that." 

"One  can't  get  quite  away  from  the  world  anywhere, 
you  know." 

4 '  I  hope  your  friend  hasn't  brought  you  bad  news, 
against  my  orders." 

4 'Nothing;  nothing,   indeed." 

Harry  was  telling  the  truth,  yet  with  a  reserve.  He 
had  had  this  information  the  day  before  from  Waveney: 

' '  The  Beldens  are  coming  on.  Grace  is  well  now, 
but  the  Doctor  thinks  she  needs  rest  and  change.  He's 
the  California  member  of  some  scientific  association, 
or  medical  congress,  or  what  not,  that  meets  at  New- 
port this  year,  and  can't  and  won't  do  without  him; 
I'm  glad  they  appreciate  him.  So  this  time  that  brings 
them  both.  They  leave  the  children  with  his  sister,  who 
will  take  the  best  of  care  of  them;  of  course  that's  hard 
for  Grace,  but  they  are  too  young  for  so  long  a  trip, 


272  YESTERDAY. 

and  it  would  do  her  no  good  if  she  had  to  be  looking 
after  them  all  the  time.  The  Doctor  has  a  partner, 
so  he  can  take  a  vacation." 

"When  do  you  expect  them?" 

"In  three  or  four  days  at  farthest.  We  shall  have  a 
little  business  together.  Mrs.  Bishop  has  died,  and  I 
am  one  of  her  executors.  She  leaves  half  her  property 
to  Grace,  which  is  very  natural;  and  the  other  half  to 
Ina,  which  I  think  equally  so;  but  it  vexes  Ina,  who 
says  it  shows  a  want  of  confidence  in  me.  Still  she 
accepts  her  share — the  old  house  on  Long  Island.  \Ve 
mean  to  spend  our  summer  there,  and  the  Beldens  are 
to  make  us  a  visit,  whenever  the  Romaines,  who  have 
the  first  promise,  will  let  them  leave  Newport." 

A  little  later  Waveney  came  again  and  Felix  with 
him.  "We  are  in  town  for  a  day  or  two,  on  account 
of  this  legacy-business,"  Felix  said,  "and  I  felt  I  must 
see  you.  My  old  friend  Barbette  reports  you  as  mend- 
ing, but  I'm  afraid  you  are  not  quite  done  with  him 
yet. " 

"You  certainly  look  as  if  California  and  good  luck 
had  agreed  with  you,"  Harry  said.  "And  your  wife; 
is  she  better  ?  " 

"Perfectly  well  now;  the  journey  has  done  her  a 
world  of  good." 

"Tell   me,   would   I    know  San    Francisco  again,    or 


YESTERDAY.  273 

have  they  pulled  it  all  down  and  built  it  all  up  on 
a  new  plan?"  With  that  they  talked,  till  Belden  went 
away,  of  the  places  and  people  they  remembered  on  the 
Pacific  side. 

"There's  a  happy  man,  and  not  arrogantly  so  either," 
thought  Harry.  "But  if  I  could  have  seen  her!  And 
yet  I  thank  her  for  not  coming  near  me." 

"Grace,"  said  Felix,  when  he  had  returned  to  her, 
"I  am  afraid  Sundon  has  not  forgotten  yet." 

"I  wish  he  might.  It  seems  as  if  it  was  my  fault. 
But  here's  a  letter  from  Florence,  all  good  news  about 
the  children.  If  only  they  were  here !  " 

' '  Don't  think  too  much  of  that,  or  you  may  not  get 
back  so  soon." 

July  came.  Doctor  Barbette  declared  in  the  course  of 
the  month  to  his  patient, 

"You've  had  enough  of  the  sea  for  a  while;  something 
more  bracing  is  what  you  need  now.  You  must  go  to 
the  White  Mountains;  but  not  by  through  train;  spend 
one  night  in  New  York,  take  a  Sound  boat  the  next,  and 
so  on  by  easy  stages." 

Harry  began  his  journey,  therefore,  by  visiting  the  Wave- 
neys;  his  own  rooms  were  shut  up.  That  family  were 
delayed  in  town  on  account  of  repairs  required  at  the 
old  house  on  Long  Island;  they  had  a  good  deal  to  say 
about  the  Beldens. 


274  YESTERDAY. 

"  How  young  Grace  looks  for  a  woman  so  near  forty  I" 
Tony  said. 

"Oh,  she's  only  thirty-six  yet,"  Harry  answered. 

"She  hasn't  faded  at  all,"  Ina  said.  "She  looks  just 
as  she  used  to." 

"That's  easy  to  believe.     Toinette,  what  are  you  about 
with  that  big  needle?  come  and  show  me." 
*  Toinette  brought  her  embroidery, — she  had  just  reached 
the  dignity  of  crewel-work, — and  sat  down  by  him. 

"So  you  know  my  cousin  Grace?"  she  said.  "Isn't 
it  funny  she  should  be  my  cousin,  when  she's  older  than 
my  mamma,  and  her  little  boy  and  girl,  that  are  younger 
than  I  am,  should  be  my  cousins  too?  She  has  their 
pictures;  she  showed  them  to  me,  and  I  think  she  cried 
a  little  bit,  not  to  have  themselves  here.  They're  nice, 
but  they're  not  so  pretty  as  my  brother  and  sister.  But 
she's  so  pretty,  and  so  nice !  " 

"And  Doctor  Belden,   what  is  he  like?" 

"Cousin  Felix?  I  don't  know  so  much  about  him; 
he  isn't  easy  to  know,  as  papa  says.  But  we'll  see  them 
again;  we're  going  to  Aunt  Bishop's  house — that's  our 
house  now — to-morrow,  and  most  likely  the  next  day 
they'll  come  to  us.  Poor  Aunt  Bishop,  I'm  afraid  I 
don't  care  much  if  she  is  dead.  I  should  be  a  great 
deal  more  sorry  if  anything  happened  to-  you." 

"You  would,  pet?" 


YESTERDAY.  275 

"Wouldn't  I?  and  so  would  everybody  else.  But 
you're  getting  well,  you  know.  Even-body  wants  to 
hear  how  you  are.  First  they  used  to  ask  papa  all  the 
time;  and  now  they're  out  of  town,  they  write.  Oh,  and 
one  day  there  came  a  funny  old  man,  that  keeps  a  hotel 
near  Aunt  Bishop's,  and  he  nearly  cried,  asking  about 
you.  And  Cousin  Grace  and  Cousin  Felix  were  so  sorry; 
and  Doctor  Barbette  came  in  to  tell  us  about  you,  and 
Cousin  Felix  asked  him  so  many  questions  about  how 
he  took  care  of  you,  that  I  got  quite  mad  with  him,  be- 
cause I  thought  he  thought  Doctor  Barbette  was  a  bad 
doctor;  and  I  asked  him  if  he  meant  that;  but  he  said, 
'Oh  no,  he  knows  twice  as  much  as  I  do.'" 

"Then  I  must  be  well  t.\ken  care  of.'' 

"Can't  you  make  Doctor  Barbette  let  you  come  and 
see  us  when  Cousin  .Grace  comes?  Ask  him.  She'd 
like  it,  and  we'd  like  it,  and  there's  lots  of  room  in  the 
house:  it's  so  big!" 

"Maybe,   puss." 

But  Harry  was  very  far  from  meaning  such  a  thing. 
He  felt  as  desirous  to  see  Grace  as  ever;  but  therefore  he 
would  not;  above  all  in  his  present  state,  which  made 
him  doubt  if  he  could  meet  her  calmly.  He  tried  to 
reason  away  the  whole  thing,  looking  at  himself  in  the 
glass,  and  seeing  the  image  it  gave, — gray,  pale,  worn, 
dispirited.  "I  am  grown  old,  and  what  have  old  fel- 


276  YESTERDAY. 

lows  to  do  with  love  ?  She  herself  is  not  so  young  either. " 
But  it  was  no  use.  "If  her  hair  were  white  and  her 
forehead  wrinkled,  she  would  be  Grace  still;  and  they 
tell  me  now  she  has  lost  nothing  of  her  looks,  of  her- 
self. I  will  not  see  her,  to  torment  her  with  my  troubles; 
what  I  began  when  we  met  last  must  be  carried  out  to 
the  end." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

TNA  and  the  children  went  off  the  next  morning,  to 
A  take  up  their  abode  for  the  rest  of  the  summer  in 
the  Bishop  house.  Waveney  staid  behind,  seeing  about 
various  luggage  that  was  to  be  sent  down  there;  Harry 
remained  with  him  till  the  late  afternoon,  when  they 
parted  for  their  different  destinations. 

"I'm  sorry  you'll  miss  the  Beldens,"  was  Waveney 's 
unsuspicious  last  word. 

Though  New  York  was  now  empty  elsewhere,  West 
Street  still  over-flowed  with  its  usual  flood  of  freights 
and  passengers;  heavily-loaded  trucks,  crammed  street- 
cars, throngs  of  people  on  foot;  the  great  stream  of 
travel  for  business  or  pleasure,  bound  north,  south, 
east,  and  west,  inland,  coastwise,  and  over-sea.  As 
Harry,  on  his  way  to  the  Boston  boat,  made  one  of 
this  mingled  crowd,  he  noticed  a  large  lady  before  him 
drop  a  traveling-fan;  he  picked  it  up  and  stepped  for- 
ward with  ' '  This  is  yours,  I  believe,  madam  ? " 

"Yes,  thank  you,"  said  she,  turning  on  him  a  well- 
set,  large,  but  not  expressive  pair  of  black  eyes  (like 


278  YESTERDAY. 

what  Ina's,  if  the  life  and  spirit  had  left  them,  would 
have  been),  belonging  to  an  appearance  still  showily  ef- 
fective, notwithstanding  a  too-comfortable  life  had  injured 
it  in  the  direction  of  trimness  of  figure.  Her  compan- 
ion, evidently  her  husband,  seemed  to  have  enjoyed 
the  same  existence,  though  the  providing  of  it  had  left 
more  marks  on  his  face  and  much  gray  in  his  beard. 
He  too  looked  round,  and  an  expression  of  utmost  as- 
tonishment came  over  him  as  he  saw  Harry.  "Why," 
he  blurted  out,  "I  saw  your  death  in  yesterday's  paper 
at  Long  Branch." 

It  appeared  afterwards  that  one  of  the  lesser  journals 
had  filled  up  a  blank  in  its  columns  with  this  statement. 

"I'm  not  a  ghost  quite  yet,"  answered  Harry,  quietly, 
but  not  without  a  certain  uncomfortable  feeling  at  the  ad- 
dress, intensified  to  something  more  as  he  suddenly  rec- 
ognized who  it  was  that  had  spoken.  "But  as  for  you, 
Mr.  Lang,  you  look  good  for  the  next  twenty  years;  the 
world  has  gone  well  with  you." 

"So  well,"  sard  Lang,  with  an  impulse  of  pity  for 
the  worn  man  before  him,  "that  I  have  no  more 
quarrels  with  any  one." 

Harry  bowed,  and  let  them  pass  on.  He  could  not 
say  another  word;  but  he  thought,  "  If  I  were  to  die 
now,  I  should  be  free  of  the  world;  he  is  the  best  off 
of  us  now." 


YESTERDA  Y.  279 

"Was  that  Mr.  Sundon?"  the  present  Mrs.  Lang 
afterwards  remarked  to  her  husband. 

"Yes.  Why  do  you  ask  me  that  way,  as  if  I  ought 
to  have  been  harder  on  him  ?  If  you  saw  a  ghost, 
Kate,  would  you  fire  stones  at  it  ? " 

The  boat  was  crowded,  but  Harry  did  not  look  about 
for  acquaintances;  the  hot  day  had  fatigued  him;  he 
found  a  cool  corner,  and  sat  there  scarcely  observing" 
what  went  on  round  him.  The  sea-breeze  had  refused 
to  blow  that  day;  a  heavy  haze  dulled  the  air,  blurring 
the  pretty  circuit  of  the  harbor,  and  thickening  into  a 
white  fog  as  they  got  out  into  the  Sound.  The  night 
would  not  be  dark,  for  the  moon  was  full;  but  the  mist 
made  sky  and  water  alike  monotonous  to  the  eyes.  It 
was  still  early  when  Harry  went  to  his  stateroom.  He 
took  off  his  coat  and  boots,  and  lay  down;  he  was  not 
a  nervous  man,  but  liked  to  be  ready  at  a  moment's 
notice,  if  anything  might  happen.  He  dozed  and  woke 
and  dozed,  had  strange  dreams,  vaguely  unpleasant,  and 
sleepless  intervals 'in  which  memories,  came  before  him 
like  shadows,  not  able  in  his  dulled  state  to  move  him 
with  their  accustomed  force. 

The  fog-whistle  began  to  blow,  and  in  his  dreams 
the  sound  shaped  itself  to  that  of  the  fain'  hunting-horn 
of  the  old  legend  he  had  once  read,  which  rang  through 
the  French  forests  when  kings  were  to  die. 


280  YESTERDAY. 

A  sudden  crash  and  shaking  woke  him:  he  sat  up, 
his  nerves  quivering,  his  mind  bewildered;  his  first 
clear  idea  was  to  listen  for  the  noise  of  running  water; 
he  somehow  remembered  to  have  heard  of  a  boiler  ex- 
plosion on  one  of  these  great  boats,  where  the  hot  wa- 
ter poured  all  over  one  floor,  and  the  passengers,  who 
might  have  escaped  had  they  remained  in  their  berths, 
were  scalded  by  jumping  into  it.  No;  his  ears  caught 
other  sounds;  shouts,  screams,  splintering  thuds  like 
falling  timbers,  and  a  roaring  crackle  which  must  mean 
fire;  one  could  smell  the  smoke  too.  At  once  he 
was  out  of  his  room:  the  next  moment  he  was  car- 
ried along  in  a  rush  of  people  who  were  making  for 
the  upper  aft-deck  and  the  open  air,  away  from  the 
rifted  wall  of  the  boat  and  the  outpouring  cloud  of 
fiery  smoke  beyond  the  break.  Men,  women,  and 
children,  in  wild  confusion,  were  crying,  "She's  all  on 
fire,"  "We  are  sinking,"  "Where  are  the  life-preserv- 
ers," "Where  are  you,  father,  mother,  Mary,  Jack,  any 
of  us  ? "  The  lamps  on  board  were  all  out;  but  the 
sliding  door  which  opened  on  the  deck,  driven  back 
hard,  showed  a  great  mouth  of  pale  light.  As  the  peo- 
ple reached  it,  two  or  three  stumbled  and  fell  over  the 
sill.  Harry,  who  had  now  slipped  ahead,  stood  in  the 
door  and  called  out,  "You  there  behind,  wait  a  bit; 
if  we  don't  trample  each  other,  we're  safe  enough." 


YESTERDAY.  281 

The  breathless  crowd  paused  a  moment;  the  fallen 
people  picked  themselves  up  with  his  help;  then  every 
one  advanced,  but  more  slowly.  They  found  the  deck 
on  a  level  with  the  water;  a  boat  was  floating  close  to 
the  railing,  but  it  was  unluckily  more  than  half  full  of 
people  already;  having  no  oars,  they  could  not  push  off, 
Harry  saw. 

' '  There's  a  boat !  Let  us  aboard  !  "  cried  those  be- 
hind him. 

He  sprang  up  on  the  seat  that  runs  along  the  railing, 
and  called  out,  "She's  crowded,  but  she'll  take  another 
woman  or  two;  let  'em  ahead,  boys,  and  you  try  the 
floating  stuff; "  for  a  glance  behind  him  showed  the 
water  full  of  broken  timber,  mattresses,  camp-stools, 
and  other  such  things  floated  up  from  below. 

"Try  it  yourself!"  and  a  couple  of  men,  big  and 
strong,  but  demoralized  with  fear,  flew  up  at  him  and 
pushed  him  over,  as  they  jumped  for  the  boat.  He 
fell  backwards  into  the  water;  a  floating  beam,  rising 
on  the  wave  the  steamboat  made  as  she  suddenly  keeled 
towards  him,  struck  him  in  the  side.  The  blow  turned 
him  faint  for  a  moment;  then,  the  coolness  of  the  water 
seeming  to  revive  him,  he  raised  himself,  with  a  re-awak- 
ening of  all  his  energies  to  save  his  life,  and  looked 
about  as  he  began  to  swim.  In  the  faint  light  he  saw 
the  little  boat  bottom  upwards,  and  the  people  climbing 


282  YESTERDAY. 

up  on  her  and  on  the  supports  of  the  hurricane  deck 
of  the  steamboat,  still  above  water.  Then  a  boyish  voice 
at  his  ear,  whose  sound  seemed  oddly  familiar,  said, 
"Swim  away  quick!  we  can't  help  them  now;  she'll  go 
down  and  suck  us  under." 

"Strike  out,  and  we'll  keep  together!"  Harry  an- 
swered; and  following  his  companion's  lead,  in  a  few 
minutes  they  were  clear  of  the  wreck,  and  losing  sight 
of  it  in  the  fog. 

The  new  fellow- voyager — a  slim  boy  of  twelve  or  thir- 
teen, in  his  under-clothes,  but  wearing  a  watch  and 
chain, — stopping  to  float  a  minute,  said  with  a  chok- 
ing voice,  "Not  a  sign  of  them!  Would  you  go 
back  ? " 

"No,"  Harry  answered,  as  cheerily  as  he  could; 
"they'll  be  picked  up  as  soon  without  you;  I  saw  a 
steamboat  lying  off  us  just  now,  didn't  you?" 

"She's  no  good;  it  was  she  ran  into  us,  and  smashed 
herself  and  is  going  down  too.  I  came  from  the  for- 
ward end  of  ours;  there  were  father  and  mother  and  I — 
the  people  pushed  me  one  way  and  them  the  other — oh 
Lord  !  " 

"Come,  my  boy,  keep  your  breath  to  keep  you  up. 
When  your  father  and  mother  are  safe,  you  mustn't 
go  under  to  make  them  not  care  that  they  are. " 

"Yesterday  was  my  birthday,  and  father  lent  me  his 


YESTERDAY.  283 

watch.  It  was  only  for  the  day  I  asked  him,  and  if  I 
never  give  it  back — " 

"Oh,   but  you  will  yet" 

"Our  end  was  all  afire.  I  heard  a  man  say,  'I  won't 
burn  nor  drown  neither,'  and  he  shot  himself  through 
the  head  at  his  stateroom  door.  Then  I  jumped  off.'' 

' '  The  more  fool  he.  Now  you  brace  up  and  work 
ahead,  but  not  too  hard  though,  my  man.  These 
waters  are  full  of  craft;  ship,  schooner,  steamboat, 
anything  you  like  to  pick  you  up." 

"But  if  I  should  get  too  used  up  even  to  float  before 
anything  comes — " 

"Put  your  hands  on  my  shoulders  when  you  feel 
tired,  and  you'll  be  safe." 

So  they  paddled  and  floated  along,  far  beyond  their 
depth,  with  nothing  but  their  own  strength  to  depend 
on.  After  a  while  Harry  felt  the  boy's  hands  on  his 
shoulders,  and  heard  him  whisper,  ' '  I  can't  help  it " 

"You're  not  heavy.     Now  you'll  do  better." 

Still  no  sight  or  sound  of  help  or  life;  only  the  endless 
pale  water  and  white  fog.  By-and-by  the  boy  said,  ' '  I 
can't  stand  this  much  longer." 

"Slip  down,  and  I'll  hold  you.  I  can  swim  with  one 
arm." 

Harry  caught  the  boy  by  the  neck  of  his  shirt  as  he 
slid  to  one  side,  held  him  up  and  swam  alon^;  but  this 


284  YESTERDAY. 

was  hard  work;  and  now  the  thought  stole  upon  him, 
"If  I  should  fail  too?"  His  wet  clothes  hampered  him, 
and  he  could  not  try  to  get  them  off  without  letting 
go  the  boy;  he  felt  a  dull  ache  creeping  over  him,  and 
a  burning  in  his  side  where  the  timber  had  struck. 

Just  then  there  was  a  low  sound  behind  them  like  a 
distant  cheer. 

' '  That's  help  !  "  cried  the  boy,  with  a  shrill  scream. 
"Turn  about." 

As  they  turned,  the  noise  grew  louder.  They  saw 
something  dark  lying  low  on  the  water,  like  a  heavily- 
freighted  clumsy  sloop,  with  what  seemed  a  stumpy  mast 
at  one  end;  from  this  the  sound  came. 

"This  way  !  "  the  boy  cried  again;  "here's  two  of  us 
drowning." 

"We're  too  heavy  to  come  fast,  but  keep  up  and  the 
tide'll  bring  us,"  answered  a  chorus  of  voices. 

The  tide  had  now  begun  to  set  strongly  towards  the 
swimmers.  Harry,  revived  and  excited  by  the  prospect 
of  safety,  struggled  against  its  bubbling  ripple;  before 
he  hoped,  he  touched  the  floating  mass,  and  he  and  the 
boy  were  caught  by  friendly  hands  and  drawn  on  board. 

For  some  time  he  knew  no  more;  then  he  heard  some 
one  speak.  "Good  God,  he  can't  be  dead.  No,  he's 
coming  to.  There,  lean  against  me,  that's  easier  for 
you  than  lying  flat;"  and  he  felt  himself  raised  a  little 


YESTEKDAY.  285 

way.  The  voice  sounded  like  the  boy's,  but  was  that 
of  an  older  person. 

"Who  are  you?"  Harry  asked,  vaguely.  "I've  known 
you  somewhere." 

"I'm  Charley  Corbin  of  St.  Louis, — and  bless  me, 
you're  Harry  Sundon.  Here  we  haven't  met  in  all  these 
years,  and  now  first  thing  I  know  you  pick  up  my  boy 
for  me ! " 

' '  And  a  hundred  thousand  thanks,  and  there  was  never 
anybody  so  good,  and  oh,  I  don't  know  what  to  say  !  " 
It  was  a  woman  with  a  cloud  of  hair  falling  about  her, 
and  brushing  Harry's  face  as  she  knelt  beside  him,  that 
spoke. 

"Both  father  and  mother  safe;  didn't  I  tell  you,  my 
man  ? "  said  Harry.  At  that  the  boy  sobbed  and  hid 
his  head  a  moment  on  his  mother's  shoulder.  Then, 
trying  to  compose  himself;  "Father,  here's  your  watch 
back;  it'll  want  some  cleaning  after  all  this  wash;  if  your 
friend — "  But  here  he  broke  down  again. 

Harry,  with  his  head  against  Corbin's  knee,  was  able 
to  look  about  him,  and  slowly  to  understand  their  situ- 
ation. They  were  on  a  raft,  floating  low  in  the  water, 
rocked  by  the  strong-running  tide.  It  was  crowded  with 
people,  some  dripping  wet,  their  clothes  clinging  round 
them  (luckily  for  these,  the  night  was  warm),  and 
others  quite  dry;  some  entirely  dressed,  others  in  curi- 


286  YESTERDAY. 

ous  undress  and  dishevelment;  all  sitting  crouched  and 
nearly  motionless.  At  the  stern  was  what  Harry  had 
taken  for  a  mast;  it  proved  to  be  a  man,  a  tall  young 
fellow  in  the  uniform  of  a  sailor  of  our  navy;  he  was 
sculling  with  a  short  oar,  guiding  the  heavy  raft  as 
steadily  as  he  could.  Behind,  towing  by  a  rope,  was 
a  smaller  raft,  holding  a  few  more  men  and  women. 

"Now  holler  again,  all  hands!"  the  sailor  called 
out;  "shout,  squeal,  cheer,  make  all  the  noise  you've 
got  in  you  !  One,  two,  three  !  " 

The  men  lifted  up  their  heads  with  their  former  cry. 
But  Corbin  put  his  hand  over  Harry's  mouth.  "'Sh, 
'sh  !  you'll  kill  yourself  if  you  try  to  do  any  more.  We 
can't  have  you  breaking  a  blood-vessel  now." 

"Now  take  breath  and  let  a  fellow  listen!"  was  the 
sailor's  next  order.  They  all  were  silent;  but  so  was 
everything  around. 

"Now  holler  again!  We  don't  want  no  more  col- 
lisions to-night."  So  with  shouting  and  listening,  they 
kept  on  their  way. 

"That's  a  good  fellow  at  the  oar,"  Corbin  told  Harry. 
"When  we  got  up  on  the  hurricane  deck,  he  had  that 
baby — the  mother's  holding  it  now,  but  he  took  it  while 
she  was  looking  for  the  other  children;  she  found  them 
all,  but  her  husband's  nowhere — on  one  arm,  while  he 
worked  at  the  raft  with  the  other.  He  called  us  men 


YF.STEKDAY.  287 

to  help  him,  and  pretty  soon  we  got  it  afloat;  it  was 
a  long  jump  down,  but  even-body  lit  safe.  I'd  never 
have  left  without  my  boy;  but  we  thought  he  was  right 
behind  us;  when  we  missed  him  Lizzy  fainted,  and  the 
fire  flew  at  her  and  singed  her  bair,  and  I  caught  her 
up  and  jumped  too.  Once  we  got  clear  of  the  wreck, 
we  picked  up  half-a-dozen  people  out  of  the  water;  then 
those  tagging  on  behind,  so  scared  they  could  hardly 
keep  afloat  when  we  found  them;  then  you,  that  are 
worth  the  whole  lot." 

Still  they  drifted,  and  the  shouters  were  growing  weary, 
when  a  distant  whistle  was  heard  before  them,  to  the 
right  hand.  The  cheer  answered  it,  loud  and  joyful; 
as  the  raft  was  hushed,  the  whistle  rang  out  nearer  and 
more  sharply;  and  the  pulsing  throb  of  paddle-wheels 
began  to  fill  the  air. 

"That's  the  Empire  \"  exclaimed  a  young  fellow  in  a 
red  shirt  at  Corbin's  elbow.  "I  know  her  singin'  mighty 
we1!.  Best  boat  on  the  Sound;  we'll  find  better  quarters 
than  the  old  tub  we  left  behind,  tell  you  what ! " 

Another  shout,  and  another  whistle.  "Old  Ben 
Franklin  himself  would  pay  all  he  was  worth  for 
that ! "  said  the  red  shirt 

The  sky,  which  already  had  been  faintly  lightening, 
began  to  clear;  the  pink  flush  before  sunrise  tinged  the 
breaking  fog;  the  east  was  darkened  only  by  the  welcome 


288  YESTERDAY. 

shadowy  mass  of  the  great  steamboat.  The  people 
sprang  to  their  feet,  waved  hands,  handkerchiefs,  coats, 
shawls;  to  their  now  incoherent  screams  and  cries  an 
answer  rang  out  firm  and  distinct:  "Stay  where  you 
are,  and  we'll  be  along  right  away." 

At  once  the  shipwrecked  crowd  were  still.  They  saw 
the  great  wheels  turning;  the  Empire,  towering  over 
them  as  a  lofty  pile  of  building  towers  over  children  in 
the  street,  came  on,  came  close;  she  slackened,  slid  her 
shining  bow  past  them,  stopped.  A  man,  two,  three, 
leaning  over  the  bulwarks  of  the  lower  forward  deck, 
were  letting  down  ropes  which  the  red-shirt  was  catch- 
ing. The  sailor,  leaving  his  oar  to  another  hand,  came 
among  the  people  to  keep  order.  "The  women  and 
children  first,"  he  said.  "Hi!  you  up  there,  let  down 
a  chair."  It  came,  and  he  fastened  the  women  and  lit- 
tle ones  to  it,  and  sent  them  up  one  at  a  time.  As  soon 
as  they  were  all  safe,  "Now's  your  turn,"  said  he  to 
Harry;  "you  saved  that  little  chap,  and  you're  hurt 
somehow. " 

"I  can  wait — "  Harry  began;  but  two  or  three  men 
caught  him  up,  and  before  he  knew  it  he  was  on  deck 
too. 

A  place  had  been  cleared  among  the  wagons  and 
freight;  there  stood  the  already-rescued,  watching  their 
companions  follow.  Passengers  with  help  to  offer,  fears 


YESTERDA  Y.  289 

to  set  at  rest,  or  curiosity  to  satisfy,  crowded  the  wide 
lower  doors;  and  on  the  upper  deck  was  another  throng, 
with  excited  and  pitying  faces,  leaning  against  the  rope 
netting  and  gazing  over.  Somewhere,  but  whether  above 
or  below  Harry's  dimming  eyes  and  confused  brain  could 
not  tell,  he  saw  Grace  and  Felix;  their  looks  of  sym- 
pathy met  his  uncertain  glance.  He  thought  he  called 
her  name,  though  in  truth  he  did  not  speak.  His  head 
swam,  his  feet  gave  way  under  him;  but  he  was  upheld 
by  strong  arms;  he  yielded  himself  to  the  friendly  support, 
and  to  unconsciousness. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

WHAT  happened  after  that?  Harry  could  not  tell, 
for  one.  He  had  strange  intervals  of  conscious- 
ness, when  a  sense  of  pain,  at  first  dull,  grew  violent, 
but  was  quelled  by  opiates  which  led  him  into  heavy 
sleep;  with  waking  the  suffering  returned,  and  was 
driven  away  as  before.  There  would  be  moments  in 
which  he  would  see  familiar  faces,  but  whether  in  fact 
or  in  delirium  he  was  never  sure;  he  seemed  to  change  his 
place  continually,  though  he  could  not  move.  Whether 
this  went  on  for  hours,  or  months,  or  years,  he  did  not 
know.  At  last  he  waked  without  pain,  and  found  him- 
self lying  quite  still,  no  longer  tossing  on  the  Sound, 
and  in  a  quiet  place,  no  noise  of  boats  or  waters  or 
shouting  in  his  ears.  He  was  in  a  room,  the  old-fash- 
ioned furnishing  of  which  suggested  Mrs.  Bishop's  house. 
Through  a  broad  window  not  far  from  his  bed  he  could 
see  the  tree-tops  stirring  in  the  sea-breeze,  and  the  after- 
noon sun  streaming  on  the  fields  beyond.  He  could 
but  just  lift  his  head,  he  was  so  weak;  yet  he  felt  a 


YESTERDAY.  291 

comforting  sense  of  safety  in  his  surroundings.  Only 
he  seemed  to  be  alone.  "I'd  like  to  see  somebody," 
he  thought.  "I  wonder  if  I  can  speak."  With  that  he 
called, — though  his  voice  surprised  him,  it  was  so  faint, 
— "Any  one  here?" 

"Yes,  I  am;"  and  Corbin  came  forward.  "I  hope 
you're  pretty  comfortable  now.  I  mayn't  be  much  of 
a  nurse,  but  I  mind  what  I'm  told;  they  had  to  let 
me  try  to  do  something  for  you, — you  that  saved  my 
boy.  Mrs.  Belden's  better  than  I,  but  there  was  too 
much  for  one  to  do;  you've  needed  care  every  minute." 

"You've  been  very  good  to  me;  I've  seen  you  off 
and  on;  so  you're  real,  all  of  you?  Isn't  this  the 
Waveneys'  house  ?  " 

"It  is.  Doctor  Belden  said  you  must  be  out  of 
town,  and  we  got  a  tug,  and  brought  you  straight 
here.  We  telegraphed  for  your  own  doctor,  and  he 
came  post-haste;  so  you're  in  good  hands. " 

"I  must  have  got  rather  battered  to  need  them  all. 
How  long  have  I  been  here?" 

"Two  days." 

"How  are  your  family?" 

"All  right,  only  a  trifle  shaken;  they're  at  Start's. 
Old  Start  has  been  up  time  and  again  to  hear  how 
you  were  getting  on." 

' '  He's  a  good  soul.     I  wonder,  by  the  way,  who  those 


292  YESTERDAY. 

fellows  were  that  pushed  me  off.  I  know  I've  seen  one 
of  them  somewhere  before." 

"That  one's  here,  and  in  a  state  of  mind,  the  scamp! 
He  wants  you  to  forgive  him;  but  I  wouldn't  do  it.  He 
came  down  to  Start's  last  night,  and  made  his  confession 
this  morning;  Start  drew  a  pistol  on  him  and  ordered 
him  out  of  the  house." 

"That  was  foolish  of  Start:  what's  done  is  done.  Tell 
the  fellow  that;  or,  if  he  takes  it  hard,  bring  him  in, 
and  I'll  tell  him  myself;  yes,  do  that,  the  sooner  the 
better. " 

"All  right;  I'll  leave  you  with  the  Doctor,   then." 

Corbin  went  out,  and  Belden  took  his  place.  For 
some  time  nothing  was  said;  then  Harry  began,  "So 
I've  been  ill,  and  it's  not  over  yet  ? " 

"Not  quite." 

"You  and  Barbette  keep  giving  me  opiates;  don't 
get  me  into  the  habit  of  them;  that's  worse  than 
whisky. " 

' '  Never  fear. " 

"What  made  you  pick  me  up  on  the  boat,  I  wonder?" 

"Why  not?''  taking  Harry's  hand. 

"You  don't  know  how  bad  I  am.  I  have  been  wish- 
ing for  years  that  you  might  die;  and  you  come  to  help 
me ! " 

"My  dear  fellow,  when  you  do  me  any  harm  it  will 


YESTERDA  V.  293 

be  time  to  stand  off."  The  speaker's  friendly  face  did 
not  change;  and  Harry,  expecting  the  hand  he  held  to 
be  withdrawn,  felt  his  own  pressed  tighter. 

Here.Corbin  re-entered,  with  a  shabby,  forlorn  com- 
panion, of  blotchy  skin  and  bloodshot  eyes,  showing 
in  his  air  only  the  faintest  traces  of  former  jauntiness. 

' '  You  don't  remember  me,  Harry, "  faltered  this 
individual. 

"Goring?"  asked  Sundon. 

' '  Yes.  I  haven't  got  on,  you  see.  I  haven't  any 
luck;  that's  pulled  me  down."  He  looked  as  if  drink 
had  used  him  worse  still  than  fortune.  "And  so  I  got 
tired  of  the  West,  and  when  I  could,  I  came  back. 
You're  cursing  your  own  luck  for  that,  I  know.  But 
I  lost  my  head.  My  head  isn't  what  it  used  to  be. 
After  all,  our  end  of  the  wreck  didn't  burn,  and 
grounded  and  didn't  sink  any  farther;  so  there  we  sat 
safe  till  a  tug  picked  us  up.  You'll  never  forgive 
me." 

' '  Bosh  !  Why,  I  have  forgiven  you.  What's  the  use 
minding,  now  it's  over?  Only  keep  cooler  the  next  time, 
that's  all." 

Goring  shivered  as  if  Harry's  words  were  an  electric 
shock. 

' '  Good  Lord !  You  let  me  off  too  easy,  I  that  have 
murdered  you  !  " 


294  YESTERDAY. 

Hany  started  up  and  then  fell  back,  Felix  supporting 
him.  "I  must  be  going  to  die,  then!"  he  said. 

' '  Now  you've  done  it  twice  over  !  "  Corbin  growled. 
"Get  along  with  you!  Go  to  the  devil!" 

"I  thought  Barbette  had  told,"  Goring  answered; 
"he  told  me:  and  that's  enough  to  send  me  to  the 
devil  already;  I'm  there  now." 

"Barbette  and  I  thought  there  was  a  last  chance, 
if. we  held  our  tongues,"  Felix  said. 

"And  I've  finished  that  too!"  said  Goring. 

"Come,"  said  Harry,  recovering  himself,  "I'm  not 
worth  making  such  a  time  about;  if  it  hadn't  been  this 
v:ay,  it  would  have  been  some  other.  I  do  forgive 
you,  Goring;  remember  that,  and  never  mind  the  rest." 

"You  shan't  say  I've  killed  you  to  save  my  own 
life,  anyway;  I  won't  outlast  you  long,  I  give  you 
my  word." 

With  that  Goring  hurried  from  the  room.  He  kept 
his  promise  within  three  months;  not  by  suicide,  he  had 
not  nerve  enough  left  for  that;  but  through  drink  and 
self-neglect  At  the  last  he  was  not  friendless;  for  Bar- 
bette, encountering  him  by  chance,  took  pity  on  him  for 
the  sake  of  Harry's  pardon. 

Harry  lay  quiet  a  good  while  after  Goring  was  gone; 
at  last  he  spoke  to  Felix.  "Sooner,  or  later?  Tell 
me  true  now." 


YESTERDA  Y.  295 

"I  am  afraid  sooner." 

"Hard,  or  easy?" 

' '  I  hope  easy. " 

"Don't  do  anything  to  lengthen  it  out,  if  it's  a 
struggle." 

' '  I  promise  you. " 

"Yes;  what's  the  use  of  keeping  me  alive  a  trifle 
longer,  just  to  suffer  a  few  more  minutes?  But  I  know 
you  won't.  Now  there  are  a  few  people  I  should  like 
to  see  while  my  head's  clear." 

"You've  only  to  name  them." 

"Toinette  Waveney  first" 

"Poor  little  soul!"  said  Corbin;  "she's  been  sitting 
crying  on  the  stairs  all  day  long." 

He  brought  her  in,  dishevelled  and  red-eyed.  "I 
look  too  horrid  for  you  to  see,  now  you're  sick,"  she 
said,  "but  I  couldn't  help  it" 

"Never  mind,"  said  Harry;  "I  like  my  friends  any 
way  they  come.  Don't  you  know  that?  You  didn't 
think  I  would  get  back  so  soon,  did  you?" 

"You  must  never  go  away  any  more." 

"Oh  yes,  pussy,  I  must,  and  soon;  but  not  without 
saying  good-bye  to  my  pet  first" 

"I  wish  I  could  kill  the  captain  of  the  steamboat 
and  the  man  that  threw  you  in  the  water.  I  hate 
them  !  " 


296  YESTEKDA  Y. 

"It  wouldn't  be  any  use.  You  can  do  a  better  thing 
for  me  than  that,  darling;  just  put  down  your  dear  little 
head  and  kiss  me,  so.  There,  all  your  people  have  been 
good  to  me,  and  you  not  the  least  of  them.  Now  ask 
your  papa  to  come  here  to  me." 

The  child  went  out,   choking  down  her  sobs. 

"Poor  kitten!"  said  Harry.  "I  wish  she  might  be 
through  her  troubles  for  the  rest  of  her  life  with  this. 
Now  I  must  talk  business  with  her  father,  good  fellow. 
I've  never  laid  up  a  cent,  and  with  this  wretched  long 
vacation  of  mine  I  may  be  in  debt;  but  if  selling  my 
old  things  won't  cover  it,  why,  Belden,  I  depend  on  you 
to  see  he  don't  make  himself  liable  in  any  way." 

He  made  his  arrangements  with  Waveney  very  clearly; 
then  they  had  a  few  words  of  friendly  talk,  though  the 
younger  man  found  it  hard  to  be  composed. 

"I  should  like  to  bid  your  wife  good-bye,"  Harry 
said;  "she  has  been  the  best  of  sisters  to  me,  and 
I  thank  her  a  thousand  times;  but  I'm  getting  so 
tired  and  stupid,  and  there's  one  other  friend — one 
other." 

"I  know,"  said  Waveney.  He  and  Corbin  left  the 
room  together,  and  did  not  return.  Grace  entered  in 
the  next  instant.  Harry's  eyes  looked  "Stay!  "to  Felix; 
but  the  Doctor  walked  to  the  window. 

"Tony  was   right,    Grace,"   Harry   began,    "you   are 


YESTERDAY.  297 

one  of  the  young  people,  you  don't  fade.  I'm  giad  to 
see  that  As  for  me,  my  time's  over." 

"Not  yet,  my  friend,"  she  forced  herself  to  say. 

"Ah,  but  I  know  it;  don't  try  to  make  me  cheat 
myself.  Of  course  it's  not  easy  for  a  man  who  has 
been  used  to  carry  his  point  and  have  his  own  way  to 
find  that  there's  something  in  the  world  stronger  than 
he,  which  won't  yield  an  inch  for  all  he  may  struggle 
against  it  But  I  have  learned  at  last  how  to  face  what 
I  must.  You  taught  me  that,  if  I  had  been  willing  to 
understand  sooner." 

"I  would  rather,  so  much  rather,  the  lesson  had 
not  come  from  me." 

"  No  one  else  could  have  given  it;  and  I  see  it  all  now, 
though  through  my  own  obstinacy,  it's  too  late  to  be  any 
good  beyond  helping  me  to  die  quietly.  But  no  mat- 
ter. I've  only  been  disinterested  as  an  artist;  I've  lived 
for  myself  too  much  as  a  man;  and  if  I  went  on,  I 
might  do  no  better." 

' '  You  have  been  so  kind  to  so  many  people — the 
Corbins,  Tony,  myself — " 

' '  Where  it  came  easy,  or  I  had  no  choice.  Poor 
Thyra  could  have  told  another  story  once;  you  must 
know  from  your  husband  for  how  long  and  when, 
besides  what  came  before." 

"He  never  told  me." 


298  YESTERDAY. 

"That's  more  than  I  expected.  You  two  have  kept 
my  secrets  as  I  did  not  deserve.  I  thank  you  both. 
True,  at  the  last  I  did  what  I  could  for  her — no,  I 
haven't  the  right  to  say  that  even.  She  is  gone, 
and  I  follow.  My  life  has  run  in  a  circle  since  first  I 
saw  you;  and  the  round  finishes  here,  where  it  began. 
Do  you  remember,  Grace, — I  can  ask  you  to  remember 
that, — the  day  we  met  on  the  steps,  and  you  showed 
me  this  house?" 

' '  Yes,   I  shall  not  forget. " 

"  If  I  had  been  wiser  then — but  no,  you  had  already 
made  your  choice;  and  if  you  had  not,  I  was  not  good 
enough  for  you;  I  should  have  made  you  very  unhappy, 
if  we  had  married  when  Mont  thought  of  it.  You  were 
right  in  despising  me  then." 

"I  have  always  been  too  hard  on  you;  I  have  done 
you  wrong." 

"No,  never!  only  justice  to  yourself.  You  deserved 
something  better  than  I  could  give,  and  you  have  it.  I 
can  see  you  are  a  happy  woman.'' 

"Yes,  thanks  to  you." 

"Oh  no.  Belden  would  have  taken  care  of  that 
without  me.  But  now  everything  is  done,  and  I  may 
go.  I'm  afraid  I  shall  put  Benson  to  some  trouble  at 
first;  but  Tony  will  fill  up  the  blank  before  so  very  long. 
Otherwise  I  shan't  be  missed." 


YESTERDAY.  299 

"But  you  will!" 

"Don't  take  it  so  hard;  if  I  thought  any  one — if  I 
thought  you  couldn't  do  without  me,  how  could  I  die 
with  good  courage?  But  all  my  friends  have  some  one 
nearer  them  than  I;  so  I  can  make  up  my  mind  to 
the  end.  I  get  that  poor  consolation  out  of  a  selfish 
life." 

"You  blame  yourself  too  much;  what  have  you  not 
done  for  your  friends,  for  me?  You  brought  me  all 
my  happiness." 

"And  you  make  me  able  to  die  in  peace.  Good-bye 
now;  I  feel  drowsy  and  heavy,  and  when  I  wake  I  sup- 
pose the  fight  begins.  If  I  should  be  conscious  at  the 
last,  come  again;  but  I  don't  think  I  shall.  I  have 
seen  you  once  more,  and  you  end  the  world  for  me. 
Don't  stay;  you  could  not  help  me,  and  you  must  not 
take  my  trouble  on  yourself.  Good-bye." 

She  could  not  speak;  she  bent  down  and  kissed  his 
forehead,  as  she  would  her  own  child's,  had  it  been 
there  suffering;  then  she  left  the  room,  turning  at  the 
door  to  bid  a  last  farewell  with  her  eyes. 

"Give  me  your  hand  again,"  Harry  said  to  Felix; 
and  he  fell  asleep  holding  it  as  the  twilight  began. 

Barbette  slid  into  the  room  with  a  shaded  lamp.  The 
two  doctors  watched  anxiously;  they  knew  there  might 
be  terrible  hours  coming;  but  their  fears  were  not 


300  YESTERDA  Y. 

fulfilled.  For  some  time  all  was  still.  Then  Felix  sud- 
denly felt  the  grasp  on  his  hand  tighten.  Harry  was 
awake,  and  made  an  effort  to  raise  himself;  but  in  a 
moment  he  sank  back,  the  blood  pouring  from  his 
mouth,  dead. 


THE    END. 


r.\    THE    3EW    SERIES    OF 

LIVES    OF    AMERICAN    WORTHIES. 

16mo.,  $1.25.  each. 
LIFE    OF    CAPTAIN  JOHN   SMITH.      By  CHABLES  DUDLEY 

WARNEB. 
LIFE    OF   CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS.     By  W.  L.  ALDEN. 

To  include  :  CHBIBTOPHEB  COLUMBUS,  by  W.  L.  Alden  (of  the  New  York  Timet), 
author  of  "The  Moral  Pirates,'  etc.;  CAPXAIS  JOECS  SMITH,  by  Charles  Dudley 
Warner,  author  of  "My  Summer  in  a  Garden,"  etc. :  WILLIAM  PENS,  by  Robert  J. 

Burdette  (of  the  Burlington  Batekeye] ;  BENJAMIN  PBASKXJN,  by ;  GEOBGE 

WASHINGTON,  by  John  Habberton,  author  of  "Helen's  Babies,"  etc.  :  THOMAB  JEF- 
FEBSOS,  by  Joel  Chandler  Harris  ("Uncle  Remus"):  ANDBEW  JACKSON,  by  George 
T.  Lanigan,  author  of  "  Fables  out  of  the  World.1' 

Despite  the  humorous  character  of  the  books,  the  truth  of  history  is  adhered  to. 


RECENT  LEISURE -HOUR  VOLUMES. 

16mo.     $1.OO  per  volume. 

DICK    NETHERBY. 

By  L.  B.  WALFORD,  author  of  "MR.  SMITH/' 

"  Mr*.  Walford,  who,  as  a  woman  of  wealth,  haa  a  serene  literary  leisure,  shows  no 
haste  or  carelessness  in  her  novels.  The  characters  in  Dick  Netherby  are  drawn  rrjth 
a  neat  and  adroit  hand,  with  an  evident  appreciation  and  enjoyment  of  the  whimsical 
and  the  unreasonable." — 3T.  r.  Tribune. 

••  It  -rill  be  thoroughly  enjoyed  by  readers  of  cultivated  taste." — Boston  Transcript.' 

A    LAODICEAN. 

By  THOMAS  HARDT.     With  Illustrations  by  Du  Maurier. 

••  The  fact  that  people  find  themselves  discussing  the  novel  is  a  proof  that  it  has  laid 
hold  upon  them,  and  the  interest  to  readers  of  an  •  introspective '  turn  of  mind  it 
undeniable."— .V.  J".  World. 

"  The  character  study  is  the  great  feature  of  the  work.  *  *  Incidentally  there  is 
some  quiet  satire  on  aesthetic  taste  which  is  admirable.  The  illustrations  by  the  famous 
Du  Maurier  are  very  well  done." — Boston  Pott. 

KITH    AND    KIN. 

BY  JESSIE  FOTHERGILL,  author  of  ''THE  FIRST  VIOLIN." 

Among  the  multitude  of  novels  which  are  every  year  being  published  in  England, 
and  republiehed  here,  not  one  in  a  thousand  will  compare  for  a  moment  with  Mi?s 
Jessie  FothergiU's  Kith  and  Kin.  It  hag  more  sterling  literary  qualities  than  any 
story  that  we  have  seen  since  Mrs.  W.  E.  Norris'  Matrimony.  ...  A  remarkable 
novel— a  novel  to  read  through  once  for  the.  sake  of  its  story,  and  to  return  to  after- 
wards for  its  careful  studies  of  character. 

ONE    OF    THREE. 

By  JESSIE  FOTHERGILL,  author  of  "  The  First  Violin." 

"A  story  of  earnest  and  faithful  love,  which  will  be  interesting  so  long  as  love  is  the 
hope  and  joy  of  the  young,  and  the  sweet  memory  of  the  old." — Boston  Advertiser. 

MATRIMONY. 

A  Novel.     By  W.  E.  NORRIS. 

"A  fine  book.  ...  We  cannot  but  think  that  Thackeray's  best  work 
has  never  been  approached  so  nearly.'1— Saturday  Review. 

"  It  has  not  a  single  dull  page.  .  .  .  It  is  amusing  and  interesting  from 
end  to  end."— Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

••  Our  readers  will  not  repent  it  if  they  take  our  advice  and  send  for  it." — Spectator. 

THE    LUTANISTE    OF    ST.    JACOBI'S. 

A  Tale.     By  CATHERINE  DREW. 

A    MATTER-OF-FACT    GIRL. 

A  Novel.    By  THEO.  GIFT. 

HENRY  HOLT  <&  CO.,  Publishers,  New  Yon. 


OUR    FAtV 

And  Those  i«»— n  CAQ      o 

More  than  Three  Hundred  Sfa  A      000  053  549 

Race,  arranged  with  Pianu  Accompaniment,  and  preceded  by 
Sketches  of  the  Writers  and  Histories  of  the  Songs.  By  HELEN 
KEXDRICK  JOHNSON.  Third  Edition.  8vo,  $6. 

In  all  respects  of  size,  elegance,  copiousness,  and  curious  detail,  presents  almost 
as  mnch  of  a  contrast  to  an  ordinary  song-book,  1  owever  good,  as  a  centennial  exhibi- 
tion ^o  an  old-fashioned  country  fair.  *  *  *  We  have  turned  the  pages  of  this 
unique  and  beautiful  volume  with  delight.  »  *  *  Here  is  a  library  of  the  best ! 
for  the  household.  We  may  return  to  it  again  for  some  of  its  extremely  interesting 
personal  and  literary  particulars."-— Literary  TForM. 

••  There  is  in  it  something  for  every  one." — The  Critic. 

'  A  book  which  every  lover  of  old  songs  will  covet."— Springfield  Republican. 

•  It  will  be  a  pleasure  to  all  lovers  of  home  music  to  have  so  rich  a  store  <-t  the 
••  have  all  sung  or  wished  we  could  sing."— If.  Y.  Tribune.. 

JOHN    STUART    MILL. 

A  Criticism,  with  Personal  Recollections.  By  ADEXAKtOBB  BAIN, 
LL.D..  Emeritus  Professor  of  Logic  in  the  University  of  Aberdeen. 
I2mo.  §1.00 

JAMES    MILL. 

A  Biography.  By  ALEXANDER  BAIN,  LL.D  , .Emeritus  Professor  of 
Logic  in  the  University  of  Aberdeen.  12mo.  $2.00. 

GERMANY  ;    PRESENT  AND  PAST.    By  S.  BARlNG-OouLD, 

M.A.     Svo.     $3.00. 

"It  gives  a  precis  of  just  those  very  things  a  student  requires  to  know  about  a 
foreign  nation,  and  on  which  it  is  most  difficult  to  obtain  information  in  a  compact 
We  can  only  advise  all  readers  who  sincerely  desire  to  in'onn  themselves  con- 
_•  Germany  to  read  ilr.  Baring-Gould's  volume."— London  Athenetvm. 

THE  YOUNG  FOLKS'  CYCLOPAEDIA  OF  PERSONS 
AND  PLACES.  By  JOHN  D.  CHAMPLIN,  JB.  8vo.  Dlus- 
trated.  $3.50. 

"A  companion  volume  to  hte  *  Young  Folks'  Cyclopaedia  of  Common  Things.'  The 
rwo  together  form  a  miniature  library  of  useful  information,  biography,  travel,  and 
story.  It  admirably  fills  the  place  of  a  classical  dictionary  for  young  people,  and  such 
illustrations  as  the  frontispiece  showing  the  sight  of  the  Olympic  games  with  the 
buildings  restored,  are  well  chosen.  Another  picture  makes  a  never-to-be-forgotten 
impression  of  the  comparative  heights  of  famous  buildings,  the  great  pyramid  serving 
for  a  background,  and  only  acknowledging  one  work  of  man  of  greater  altitude — 
the  Cologne  Cathedral.  The  Sphinx  marks  the  other  extreme.  This  is  a  book  that 
has  novelty  and  wear  in  it," — if.  T.  Tribune. 

THE  YOUNG  FOLKS'  CYCLOPEDIA  OF  COMMON 
THINGS.  By  John  D.  Champlirt;  Jr.,  late  Associate  Editor  of 
the  American  Cyclopaedia.  Copiously  Illustrated.  Large  izmo, 
$3.00;  Sheep,  $4.00;  Half  Morocco,  $5.25. 

1  It  is  a  thoroughly  excellent  thing,  thoroughly  well  done,  and  there  can  be  no  doubt 
whatever  that  in  every  household  into  which  it  shall  come  the  book  will  go  far  to  educate 
children  in  that  skilful  and  profitable  use  of  books  which  distinguishes  scholarly  book- 
jwTjers  from  those  who  are  not  scholars." — N.  Y.  Evening  Post. 

"  The  practice  of  consulting  a  work  of  this  kind  would  greatly  tend  to  quicken  the 

power  o!  attention,  to  stimulate  juvenile  curiosity,  and  to  strengthen  the  habit  of  careful 

and  accurate  reading,  as  well  as  to  enrich  the  memory  with  a  store  of  instructive  and 

valuable  facts.     The  present  volume  is  a  model  of  construction  and  arrangement." — 

f   Tribune.  

HENRY  HOLT  &  CO.,  Publishers,  New  York, 


